Don't Look Back
by MrSpockify
Summary: When Sam leaves in the middle of the night, Dean is completely distraught. When John comes home and finds out what happened, he's furious. Unfortunately, Dean is the only one left to face the consequences. After finally having enough of the constant beatings, Dean sets his sights on leaving. Abusive!John.
1. Chapter 1

Sam was gone. Not like, _Oh, he's going to get some snacks, he'll be back soon_ gone. He was _Sam took a duffel bag with all of his things in it_ gone, and he wasn't coming back.

Dean was screwed. He had been put in charge of taking care of his little brother, and now here he was alone in the motel, no sign of Sam anywhere. Sure, they were both adults, but that didn't mean anything. They were Winchesters, and they were family. They were supposed to stay together so no one got hurt. Now that Sam was on his own, who was going to protect him?

When he had woken up from being sprawled out on his bed, the first thing Dean noticed was that his dad was missing. He had probably gone out on a hunting trip, Dean had told himself, though he was sure that his dad was out hunting whiskey or scotch. The second thing he noticed was that his brother was missing, along with everything that his brother owned. Shirts, shoes, books, everything; it was all missing.

So he had panicked to begin with. Dean turned the room inside out and upside down looking for any indication of where his brother had gone off to. There wasn't a note or a pamphlet or anything, so he dashed outside and ran around the dark parking lot for a while, hoping to see his brother hanging around in a car or something.

Nothing.

After he returned to the room and checked again, looking harder this time, Dean called his brother about a thousand times, getting the answering machine each time. He left dozens of messages, each getting more and more desperate than the last. "Sammy, please pick up. _Please_," he had begged into the speaker, his throat tightening.

Dean was terrified. He was scared of what could have happened to Sam, even though he was sure his brother had run away willingly. Still, he could be dead somewhere on the side of the road, or kidnapped by some monster Dean was supposed to protect him from. He was scared that Sam didn't want to be found, even by his own brother. What if Sam was tired of not only their dad, but Dean? What if he hated them both?

Dean buried his face in his hands, pressing his eyes with his palms so hard he started to see white. His throat was raw, and every breath he dragged in felt like a knife. This was all his fault. He should have been awake, so he could actually _watch_ over his brother. He should have heard the shuffle of feet, or the packing of clothes, or the slam of the door. He should have woken up and stopped Sam from leaving. He should have done _something_.

He looked again, searching under the beds, in the vents, behind the toilet, in the little bible that was in a drawer… He looked in every crevice and under every surface for anything and everything that he could find. Still, he found nothing.

Dean was on his knees at the foot of the bed, gripping the ugly comforter to stop himself from losing it completely. His eyes stung painfully and his chest was tight. He felt like sobbing or screaming or both, but nothing was coming out of his open mouth. He just gaped hopelessly without even breathing, not sure what to do. There was nowhere left to look.

Behind him, the door flew open and slammed shut. Dean hiccupped and pushed himself into a standing position, turning and hoping to see his brother, but of course that was only wishful thinking.

"What the hell happened?" John looked around the motel room at the disarray. Pillows were strewn about, the drawers were all left open, and Dean's things were in a pile on the ground. "What is this mess?" He entered into the room further, tripping slightly over a stray shoe. He kicked it violently away and glared at his son, looking for an answer.

"I—I," Dean couldn't form any words. He backed away slowly, his throat closing up in panic. His dad followed suit, stepping over things to get to him.

"What did you do?" John reached forward suddenly and grabbed him, pulling him forward. They were so close, Dean could smell the alcohol in his dad's mouth, and he could feel the heat of his breath on his face. "What the _hell_ did you do?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he spat out, trying desperately to pull away. Even drunk, his dad was ten times stronger than he was. If anything else, his dad was just _bigger_ than he was. It was like trying to escape a bear. "I—I was looking for," he stopped suddenly. He couldn't put this all on his brother. His dad would be _furious_. Then again, Sam was gone. He didn't have to face their dad anymore. He'd be okay. Dean swallowed hard, trying not to let his voice tremble. "I was looking for Sam," he muttered.

"_What_?" John shouted, shaking Dean once, hard. "Where's Sam?" Silence. "Where is he?" He shook Dean again, making his head snap backwards painfully.

"I don't know," he shouted back, pulling out of his dad's grip. He stumbled backwards and hit the wall, pressing himself up against it. John advanced toward him, and Dean briefly considered two options. He could run, ducking underneath his dad's arms and escaping through the door. His drunken dad would never be able to follow him for long. Or he could fight back and throw a few punches, maybe getting in some good ones.

Neither would work, he knew. Both would backfire.

Dean settled for just telling the truth and taking the punishment. He deserved it anyway; he had let it happen. "When I woke up Sam was gone," he confessed, seeing the anger rise in his dad's eyes. "He took all of his things with him."

"You let him leave?" John took a step forward.

"I didn't—"

"You stupid son of a bitch," John screamed, leaning forward. Dean cowered against the wall, bracing himself. "I leave you with one job: Take care of your brother. And I come home to this? I come home to find out you just let him walk away?" He ran his fingers through his hair roughly, pulling on the strands. "He could be dead. Sam could be on the side of the road, murdered by some creature. _You_ know what's out there, Dean. And _you_ let him go out in it anyway."

Dean's eyes were shut tightly, and his head was down. With every word, his heart was ripping in half, because he knew, deep down, it was all true. He knew it was his fault, and he knew he had it coming.

"How the hell are you going to amount to anything when you can't even look after you own brother? You're a _failure_," he spat the word like venom. "You're fucking worthless," he accented this one with one swift smack to Dean's jaw, and the sound reverberated through the small room.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, not moving an inch.

"Oh, you're sorry," John yelled sarcastically, holding up his hands. "Now everything is better. Thank you. I take it back, Dean. You are a _perfect_ child." He grabbed Dean by his shirt, pulling him close. He leaned in to whisper in his ear, his breath thick and heavy. "Go to Hell, you worthless piece of shit." Then all Hell broke loose.

John threw him against the wall, then lunged forward and punched him in the gut, making Dean bend forward with a groan. Dean could feel the hard metal of his dad's ring smack against his skin with every hit, leaving behind purple bruises. By the time he was on the floor, covering his head instinctively as his dad kicked at him, Dean's mind was elsewhere, like it always was when this happened. It was just easier to pretend he was somewhere else.

He pictured Sam, a full duffle bag hefted over his shoulder. He was standing on the side of the road, one arm out and his thumb protruding upward. He was alone, and it was dark, but everything was okay. Because Sam wasn't here right now, being torn apart by their dad. Sam was safe. He was away from home, but he was safe. And, Dean thought, pulling himself into a tighter ball, that was better than nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: **Alright, I'm going to be completely honest with you guys. This story was meant as a one-shot, but people started to follow it, so I think I'm going to continue it. Not sure _exactly _where I'm going to end up going with this, but I have a few ideas. If anyone has any ideas or something you want to see, you should PM me or leave it in a review. I may not use it, but hey, you never know.

Also, this is going to be a little AU-ish, but nothing too drastic, I promise.

Anyway, I'll stop rambling now.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Black eye, split lip, swollen cheek, and bruised jaw. Dean ran tentative fingers over the purple splotches that dotted his face, barely touching his skin. The colorful marks were brand new, and they felt like it. He could feel the pulsing underneath each blemish, and every time a muscle in his face twitched he felt the blow all over again.

And that was just his face. Underneath his shirt, Dean could feel bruises littering his body where his dad had punched and kicked. One bruise in particular, the one on the left side of his body near his ribcage, felt to Dean like some sort of massive trauma. Even when he wasn't breathing, the mark was causing him a lot of pain. And when he _did_ take a breath…

Well. It didn't matter.

Dean turned away from the mirror in the tiny bathroom, moving to open the door. He stopped himself, turning off the light _before_ he opened it up. His dad surely had a hangover, and there was no reason to blind him right in the morning and piss him off. He also opened the door slowly and smoothly, being careful just in case it was on squeaky hinges. His dad wouldn't appreciate any loud noises.

Fortunately, he seemed to be just waking up. John groaned slightly and sat up in bed, rubbing his face with red knuckles. Dean waited patiently in the doorway of the bathroom, holding his breath.

John looked over at his son, silent for a moment before saying, "Well, what are you just standing there for?" He made his way off of the bed, stretching momentarily. "Get ready and we'll find a job for the day."

That's how it always was. They both pretended nothing happened the night before, even though Dean was a watercolor painting gone wrong, purple and soppy and thrown in the trash. John would stare straight through his son, as if he didn't even see his face.

Again, it didn't matter.

Dean packed up his things swiftly, listening to his dad get ready in the bathroom. He took his things to the car and waited silently in the passenger seat, trying to avoid his reflection in the rearview mirror. Eventually, John came walking towards the car, bag over his shoulder and his face as impassive as ever. He tossed his things into the trunk the got in the driver's seat.

"You could've started the car while you were waiting," he grumbled, still not looking at Dean.

"Sorry, sir," Dean basically whispered in response, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the engine, and they drove away.

They should be looking for Sam, Dean thought. They shouldn't be trying to track some random monster when his little brother was all alone somewhere. After several minutes of silence and staring at the endless road, he decided to speak up about it.

"Shouldn't we be trying to find Sam?" It was a mistake. John barked out a harsh laugh that sounded more like an accusation.

"I'm surprised you'd even want to. What, with the way you just let him go the first time." His hands tightened on the wheel, and Dean stared at his knuckles that were peppered with red-and-purple spots.

"Of course I want to find him, sir," Dean pressed, gripping the seatbelt in his fist.

"I think you're a liar," he shot back. The Impala started moving a little faster. "I think you feel guilty— as you should— because you let your brother walk away from our family. But you know what? I think the both of you need to learn a lesson. Sam needs to get into some trouble and get _himself_ out of it for once. And you," he laughed humorlessly, "you need to learn what your recklessness leads to. When Sam gets himself beaten or killed, you need to see it, because it'll be _your_ fault. You fuck everything up, Dean," John stated matter-of-factly, taking his eyes away from the road for a moment to stare at his son. "It's about time you learn the consequences."

Dean was quiet for the rest of the trip, staring out the window and watching the bland scenery whip by. By the time the car pulled into the front of an old roadhouse, Dean's forehead was resting against the glass, and his eyes were drooping, threatening to shut.

John slammed his car door shut, pulling Dean out of his daze. He quickly followed suit, stumbling out of the car and blinking awake. His dad spun around on his heel, pointing a finger.

"Stay in the car," he ordered.

"But—"

"Stay in the car," he repeated more firmly and leaving no room for argument. Dean begrudgingly returned to the car, sinking back into the seat and leaning his head back.

It was probably for the best that he didn't join his dad anyway. He really did fuck everything up; why would this be any different? Ever since he was a kid, Dean caused trouble. He always tried to be the hero. When would he learn that he wasn't a hero? It was pitiful.

Dean turned his head to the side, catching a glimpse of the keys still hanging limply from the ignition. He could turn the key if he wanted. He could hop over to the driver's seat and take off, leaving for good. If he wanted to, he could go look for Sam himself, and when he found him they could run away and never come back for their dad. They could start their own lives, and be happy. All he had to do was turn the key and drive.

If he wanted to.

But Dean was a coward. He was an idiot, and he'd mess it up one way or the other. There was no point in trying to run. He'd never get far enough.

There was a knock on the passenger window, and Dean's head whipped to the side in surprise. Behind the glass, leaning forward and peering in, was a blond girl, looking a few years younger than himself. She squinted and, when she realized he was looking, she smiled and waved, motioning for him to roll down the window. He did.

"Hi," she greeted, leaning forward on the doorframe. She was small, and looked much younger than Dean had first thought. She couldn't be any older than sixteen.

"Hi," he replied awkwardly. "Who are you and why are you here?"

"I think the question is who are _you_," she smiled smugly, "and why are you on my turf?" Dean looked over at the roadhouse his dad had gone into, thinking it must be where she worked or whatever.

"Oh," he muttered. "I'm Dean," he said, sitting up a little in his seat. "My dad is in there doing business."

"_Oh_," she drawled, her fingers tapping on the door. "Business." She pushed herself away from the door and ambled around the front of the car, her hand trailing on the hood. Dean watched her as she made her way leisurely to the driver's side before she slipped into the car, staring at him from behind the wheel. She grinned. "I'm Jo."

"Uh, hi Jo," he stiffened in his seat. "You know, my dad'll be out any minute, so…"

"He's a hunter, isn't he?" She ignored his awkwardness and looked around the car, leaning over to reach into the backseat. She pulled a gun from the floorboard, turning it over in her hands. "Or do you two just carry this around for kicks?"

Dean moved to snatch the gun from her hands, but when he reached forward Jo gripped his wrist. She looked at a large, swollen bruise that marked the back of his hand, where his dad's boot had connected.

"Where'd you get this?" She looked at him. "And those?" Her eyes raked over the purple marks on his face. He pulled his arm away, taking the gun with it.

"I'm a hunter, too," he explained, putting the gun back where it came from. His dad would have a fit if he thought Dean was messing around with the weapons. "It's a dangerous job. Sometimes we get injured."

"I thought monsters were supposed to bite and scratch, not punch." Dean didn't reply, but looked over at the roadhouse, willing his dad to come back out and save him. "It looks like you just got beat up, and you don't want to admit it."

"Ok, well, I think you should run off and play dolls," Dean snapped, rolling his eyes.

"You got beat up, didn't you? Who beat you up?" She laughed and leaned towards Dean, touching his shoulder. Right underneath her palm there was another bruise, and he forced himself not to wince or pull away.

"That's none of your business." Dean could feel his face heating up, and he stuck an arm nonchalantly out the window, trying to cool off.

"I'm not stupid, you know," she said, sounding softer than before. Dean was tempted to look over to her again, but he didn't. "I know who beat you up." There was a beat of silence. "I'm sorry."

"You have no idea what happened, so shut the hell up," he practically yelled, finally turning to glare at her. Though, the way she was looking at him, he was sure she really did know. Instead of pressing further, Jo smiled apologetically and got out of the car, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Dean watched her walk back to the roadhouse. When she was halfway there, she paused staring out in front of her. Dean followed her gaze, watching as his dad stormed out of the front door of the place, followed closely behind by a woman. She seemed to be yelling at him, and from what he could see, Dean thought his dad look pissed off. Since the window was down, Dean strained to hear what was being said.

"John Winchester, what the hell is the matter with you?" the woman screamed, chasing after him. "Your boy is _missing_. Go after him."

"I will do whatever I damn well please, Ellen," John yelled back, stomping closer to the Impala. Dean tried to sink into the seat, but his dad had already caught his eye. _Fuck_.

"I guess Sam's better off without a father anyway," she yelled. The woman, Ellen, had stopped following John when she was next to Jo. She wrapped an arm around her, and Dean assumed they were mother and daughter. "When he's got one like you, what's the point?"

John pulled the door to the car open too harshly, and shut it too hard. He turned the key too roughly, and gripped the wheel too tightly. Before he took off, he turned to his son, and Dean felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the look in his eyes.

"Don't say a word," he hissed." Don't you say a _fucking_ word." The tires squealed as they drove off too quickly. Out of the rearview mirror, Dean could see Ellen and Jo staring at them, and he felt something in his chest tighten painfully. He supposed they could have helped him if he let them. But of course, he screwed that up too.

It didn't matter anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes: **I'm very happy to see that people seem to like this! As I'm writing it, I'm getting some ideas of where I want to go with it. Still not 100% yet, but I'm getting there.

Thank you for reading. :)

* * *

**Chapter 3**

When John had said not to say a word, he meant not a word. Dean wasn't permitted to speak, and if he even _looked_ like he was about to say something, John would swing his arm over and stick a rigid finger in his face in warning. Dean flinched every time.

They had been driving nonstop for three hours, and Dean had absolutely no idea where they were going. Nor did he have any way of figuring out where they were going, because he wasn't allowed to ask. So he spent the time sitting stiffly in his seat, watching road signs and trying not to move around a lot. If he started to fidget, his dad would get angry.

_Ashland, 12 miles…_

_ Rest stop, next exit…_

_ Construction ahead…_

_ Welcome to the state of Kansas…_

Dean sat up a little in his seat, though not enough to be noticed by his dad. They hardly ever went to Kansas, even though they used to live there a long time ago. Actually, that was the main reason they had never been back. No one in the family liked to remember what had happened in Kansas. And yet, here they were.

He wanted so badly to ask what they were doing here, but he knew it wouldn't be a good idea. His tongue was itching in his mouth, wanting to form the words, and he pressed his lips firmly together to keep himself from speaking. _Don't say a word, _his dad's voice repeated in his mind, and that kept the questions at bay.

Still, Dean felt some sort of nervous excitement in his body. He peered out the window attentively, watching the road signs again, though this time with more observance. The first half hour, none of the names of cities rang any bells, but after about an hour, an entire orchestra was going off in Dean's head.

_Gardner, 3 miles…_

_ Kansas River, next right…_

Dean's skin felt prickly and uncomfortable, and his heart was beating irrationally fast. His eyes darted forward on the road, searching for the road sign he knew was coming. Even though he could picture it in his mind, see the color and the letters, the sign still made his breath catch in his throat.

_Lawrence, 6 miles…_

He was afraid to look to his left, fearing his dad might suddenly realize where they were and crash the car. But his dad kept driving forward, the car not wavering even the slightest bit. When the six miles were up and they were in Lawrence, his dad pulled the car into a small diner, parking and getting out like this was an everyday occurrence. Dean followed quietly.

When they stepped into the diner, a flush fell over Dean's face, and he couldn't help but gawk like an idiot. It had been years, and he had to do a double-take to make sure, but he _had_ been here before. He was positive. The grubby checkered floor, the red seats (brighter and cleaner than he remembered), and the smell of the greasy burgers and over-cooked fries… It was all clear as day in his mind, and a small smile played at the edge of his lips. His family used to come here together to eat, before…

The smile fell away sadly, and Dean followed his dad to a small booth in the corner. John's face was unreadable. He didn't look angry or sad or happy, and Dean wasn't sure what to do, so he just looked at the menu.

"Do you remember this place?" John asked suddenly, not looking up from his own menu. Dean opened his mouth, hesitating before answering. He assumed now, though, he had permission to speak.

"Yeah," he said, a touch of relief in his voice. "Yeah, we'd come here when I was really little. It's crazy, because I was like four, but yeah," he smiled a little, "I remember."

Neither of them spoke again until they ordered and received their food. Dean took a bite of a fry, marveling at how it was still, after all these year, overcooked. Even so, he ate them by the mouthful.

"When you were just barely four we took you here," John started, poking at his food with a fry. "You had learned how to roller skate or something, I don't know." He chuckled quietly. "We were going to celebrate with dinner. But when we sat down, Sam started getting restless. He was so little; probably only a few months. We tried to shut him up, but that only made it worse. After about ten minutes, he started to scream like crazy, and we had to leave." He was cracking a smile now, and Dean was in awe, because not only was he hearing a story from when he was little, but his dad seemed happy to be sharing it.

"We got to-go boxes and took it home to eat," he continued. "Me and you sat at the table, but your… Mary," his voice cut off, as if the words physically wouldn't come out. As his dad said her name, Dean's heart skipped. He hadn't heard her name in years. "She walked around the house with Sammy in her arms, singing to him to calm him down. When he finally did fall asleep, her food was cold."

That seemed to be the end of the story, and neither of them tried to start a conversation after it. They finished their food in silence, and returned to the car. Dean stared out the window again, feeling strangely satisfied.

The longer they drove, though, the more Dean started to suspect he was in some sort of dream. He even looked at his dad for a long time, trying to see if he was a mirage. But sure enough, his dad was behind the wheel. And even more surely, Dean recognized the streets they were turning down.

They were going home.

Well, to his old home. Now, home was sort of wherever he took off his shoes at night. A sleazy motel room, a lobby at some random place, the backseat of the Impala…

The car turned down several roads as smoothly as ever, as if the wheels were following an old path worn into the ground. The feeling inside the car was strangled, though Dean wasn't sure if it was out of tension or excitement. When they slowed down in front of their old house, he was sure it was both.

The house in front of him was similar to the one in his dreams— no, nightmares. So similar, it was almost the exact same; same white paint, same windows, and same type of roof. But at the same time, the house was completely new. There was a bench in the front yard, right next to a potted plant. That hadn't been there when he was a kid. A ceramic turtle was perched next to the front door, and that hadn't been there when he lived there either. A shadow moved in one of the windows, indicating someone moving inside.

They certainly hadn't been there when he was a kid.

The person inside the house made each man realize that this was someone's home, not just an old memory. Dean looked away from the house, and John pressed his foot on the petal again, driving the car grudgingly away. At the stop sign at the end of the street, Dean couldn't help himself and turned in his seat to look back at his old home again.

"Sit down," John snapped, surprising Dean. He whipped himself around to face forward again, looking guilty.

"Sorry, I just…" He trailed off, looking at the rearview mirror, trying to catch a final glimpse of the house. If he tried hard enough, he could picture his family back in the home, just like it used to be.

"You just nothing." The car jolted forward, winding back through the streets again. It didn't move as smoothly as before, like it was reluctant to leave.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, watching the house disappear around the corner. "I just miss it," he said quietly. He missed the house, he missed his mom and his brother, and he missed his life before everything bad had happened.

"You don't even remember it, Dean," John shook his head, twisting the wheel to swerve around a corner. "Don't pretend you miss it."

"I remember it," he protested, actually glaring at his dad. "I might not remember going to the diner and having to go home because of Sammy, or other little things like that because yeah, I was four. But I remember our home, and mom, and being happy. I remember before mom died we were actually a family, but now we're just a bunch of angry assholes. I might not remember much about mom—"

"Shut your damn mouth, Dean." John slammed on the brakes, jerking the car forward. Dean had gotten himself riled up, so much so that he had been gesturing wildly with his hands, and he had raised his voice more than he had in a long time. His dad put the car into park, in the middle of the street, and turned so he was facing his son. "Don't talk about Mary like you knew her. You were four when she…" His jaw clenched, and Dean pressed his back against the car door, trying to lean away from his dad. "You hardly knew her. You need to stop living in this fantasy that everything was better before. I have given you _everything_. I have done all I can to raise you right, and what do I get? I get an ungrateful kid making up stories in his mind about how much his mommy loved him when he was little. I get _you_."

"I am not making it up!" Dean's head hit the glass behind him as he tried to disappear. His chest was tightening painfully, and his eyes stung.

"Get out," John said in an unnaturally calm voice. Without looking away from Dean, he reached behind him and pressed a button to unlock the doors.

"Wh… What?" Dean stammered, his mind reeling.

"Get out of this car right now," he ordered. "There's a motel a few miles south of here. That's where I'll be. You can walk."

"I…" Dean shut his mouth when rage flared up on his dad's features. He wordlessly got out of the car, staring through the window once he was outside. His dad didn't even glance at him before he drove off, the Impala growling loudly well after it disappeared around the corner.

Dean stepped up onto the sidewalk, not sure what to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: **Warnings for this chapter: Sexual abuse. Sort of... Not exactly... Almost...

If you are sensitive to that don't read this chapter, basically.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

It had taken a couple hours to find the motel, mostly because Dean had walked as slowly as possible, debating on whether or not to even show up. His dad would come looking for him if he didn't, though, and that would be even worse than facing him like this.

It was dark out and getting colder by the second, but Dean just stood outside the door he had been told his dad was behind. His feet seemed glued to the pavement, refusing to budge whenever he thought he had summed up enough courage to go inside. He kept thinking about what would happen when he stepped into the room. His dad had been furious at him. And worse, his dad had been thinking about his mom all day, so his depressed mood would be unusually high, and his temper would be shorter than normal. If he went inside that room…

Dean rubbed a bruise on the back of his hand with a thumb, as if he could wipe it away like marker. The inky blot refused to disappear, though, and he remembered that his entire body was covered in the stains.

He was already beaten. Why was he so scared?

Dean stopped rubbing the bruise and turned the door handle, walking in quickly so he wouldn't chicken out and decide to sneak back outside. Inside the room, the lights were all off save for the bedside lamp beside the single bed. His dad's things were in a corner of the room, but besides that, there was no indication that he had been here. Dean sagged in relief.

"Dean?" His shoulders tensed again, and his stomach clenched. From the bathroom, his dad emerged, staggering a little and catching himself on the doorframe.

"Dad," he choked out, his feet once again stuck to the floor.

John's head lolled forward before he raised it slowly, his gaze falling over his son. "You were gone a long time," he slurred. "I went out for a drink, and when I came back, you were still out. I… I was starting to get worried." He made his way forward uneasily, each step labored.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, watching his dad come closer. The dim light from the lamp revealed his bloodshot eyes and wrongly buttoned-up shirt. John was walking toward him tentatively, like his mind was preoccupied, leaving his body to fend for itself.

"No, no," John muttered, waving a hand in dismissal. "It's ok." Dean visibly startled, taken aback by his dad's comment.

"It… It is?" His dad stopped a couple feet in front of him, reeking of hard liquor.

"Of course," he crooned deeply, a sloppy smile coming to his lips. "Of course it's ok, Dean." He nodded then blinked his eyes heavily, which were glazed and red. "I was just worried about you. You could've been hurt." John took another step to close the space between them, setting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder.

Something in Dean's stomach fluttered uneasily, and he knew something was going on. His dad would never let this go so easily. He'd be furious and loud. _Violent_. But not this.

"Dad, are you ok?" Dean's voice was small, giving away his fear. He was used to the beating and yelling, but this was new. It was terrifying on a whole new level.

"I'm fine," he expressed, his eyebrows raising. "But you…" He sighed. "You poor thing." His hand massaged Dean's shoulder where it rested, digging in to the tender muscles. "I did this to you, didn't I?" John's brow furrowed and his other hand came to rest on Dean's cheek. His thick fingers rubbed over a bruise, pushing at the skin gently. His thumb ran over the spit in Dean's lip, then slid up to his swollen eye. "I did this…" he whispered.

"It's ok," Dean mumbled, his heart racing. The fingers on his face felt soggy and too hot, and more than anything they felt invasive. His skin crawled as his dad traced the painful marks on his face, but he was afraid to do anything other than let it happen.

"No," he insisted, "it's not. I hurt you. I was…" John slid both of his hands to the top of Dean's shoulders, gripping them uncomfortably tight. "I'm so sorry."

"It's ok, really." Dean tried to take a step back, but his dad followed suit, stepping even closer than before. The smell of whiskey wreathed around them, encasing them in a suffocating stew.

"I hurt you so much. Why? Why would I…" He breathed out heavily through his mouth onto his son's face. "You're so strong, Dean. And even after I hurt you like this," his eyes skimmed over the bruises on his face, "you are beautiful."

Dean's whole body was shaking, and the fluttering in his stomach had turned into a full-on hurricane. He wanted to leave, but every time he started to lean away, the hands gripping his shoulders squeezed painfully, warning him not to move.

"We both miss your mother," John continued, tilting his head. "She would have been so proud of how you turned out. So big and strong," he smiled appreciatively. "You look just like Mary. Same smooth skin," John's thumbs touched the skin at the bottom of his son's neck, "same soft hair," he paused, wetting his lips, "same mouth."

"Stop," Dean said suddenly, pushing past his dad since there was no more room behind him. He pulled himself out of his dad's grip, trying to breath normally again.

"Dean..." Dean tried to escape to the other end of the room, but his dad came up from behind him, holding his arms down. "Please."

_Let go. _Dean opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The air was trapped in his throat, suffocating him.

"Come to bed."

_No_. Dean choked on his own words, feeling his lungs burn. His jaw was clenched tightly to stop his teeth from chattering, so he just shook his head and tried to pull away again.

"I won't hurt you," John urged, tugging him towards the bed.

_Yes you will. _

His dad's hot breath in his ear made Dean's legs buckle beneath him. "Just lie down with me. Please." He had no choice as his half-limp body was led by his dad to the bed. It was like being led to the slaughter, but still, Dean couldn't find it in himself to fight back.

_Please, let me go. _

He was silent as his dad pushed him underneath the covers, crawling up next to him inelegantly. An arm snaked around Dean's waste, pulling him into a smothering embrace. John's body was pressed against his son's, and his face was at the back of Dean's neck, nose poking around and lips brushing against the skin. Underneath the covers it was sticky and warm, and each man was sweating for different reasons.

Dean felt sick. Not only was he sick to his stomach, but he felt ill all over. His head was burning, his body was weak and shaky, and his chest hurt like hell. He focused on every little thing about him that felt sick, trying to ignore the drunken man wrapped around him. He was trying to ignore the fact that it was his dad, especially. He was trying to ignore the bruises on his body, and the unwanted touches he was receiving, and every single word that had struck fear into his core.

Dean felt nauseous. He felt like his head was going to explode. His legs felt like they couldn't take him anywhere anytime soon; they were too weak. His jaw was aching from being clenched to hard. His eyes stung painfully, and he could feel how red they were. His entire body was sick. His mind was sick. _He_ was sick.

John's caresses ceased suddenly, and his lips stopped searching for something at the nape of his son's neck. Dean froze, his eyes widening. After a few seconds, his dad's chest expanded with a breath then rumbled as he let out a low, quiet snore.

Dean started to cry.

He struggled to stay silent, hiccupping every once in a while as he tried to hold back sobs. His heart was still racing in his chest and Dean was struggling to calm down, if only so he wouldn't wake his dad back up.

He couldn't do it anymore; he was sure of that. Dean felt like he was giving up in every way possible. His mind was shutting down and his body was ceasing to work properly. He wanted to get out. He wanted to pry himself out of the arms that were wrapped around his body and never get pulled back in.

He had to find Sam. Dean, shivering despite the heat, blinked tears out of his eyes and sniffed. He wasn't sure how he'd track his brother down, or where he would find him, but he knew he had to look. It was the only way he could escape.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Dean would have laughed at himself if he was in any other situation. One leg was off the edge of the bed, sticking out straight like a board. He had one arm outstretched, reaching for the floor so he wouldn't tumble loudly to the ground. The upper half of his body was almost all the way off the bed, leaning precariously over. His hips were the only part of his body that was still caught.

John was snoring deeply into the pillow, smelling of whiskey, sweat, and something Dean did _not_ want to identify. His hands were locked tightly on his son's waist despite the fact that he was dead asleep. Every time Dean tried to shift his way out of the grip, John would smack his lips and pull him in closer.

_Reach… reach… _Dean wriggled his fingers and held back a whimper as he missed the floor by an inch. His hips moved slightly, causing his dad to stir in his sleep. John pulled him into his groin tightly, groaning.

It was ironic how much this situation described Dean's whole relationship with his dad. He wanted to get out so badly, to touch the floor and ease himself off the bed. But every time he got close, his dad pulled him back in firmly. There was no getting out.

No. He would get out if it was the last thing he did.

_Just a little… further… _Dean gave one final spurt of effort to touch the floor, pushing one shoulder forward so he could reach further. It was a mistake.

Suddenly, too much of his weight was leaning off the bed, and Dean fell unceremoniously onto the floor, his hips sliding out of his dad's grip. A loud thud sounded as he hit the ground, and he rolled onto his back, freezing where he was. From the bed, his dad made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough.

"Wha…" John groaned and shifted from the bed, and Dean remained frozen, eyes wide. "Dean, was that you?" He chose not to reply, wondering if he could manage to sprint out the door without being noticed. Fat chance. "Was it?"

"Uh..." Dean breathed uneasily, moving to sit up. "Yes, sir," he said, then after a moment he added, "I fell."

"Goddammit," John muttered under his breath. "Wake me up, fucking…" He rolled over on the bed, groaning more and stretching before getting up. He squinted at the strip of sunlight that was showing from behind the curtains on the window, and he swore when his shoulder hit the doorframe on his way to the bathroom. When the door shut loudly, Dean took that moment to push himself up off the floor.

He could bolt right now; he had the time, most likely. John was stuck in the bathroom doing God-knows what, so Dean could sneak out of the motel room and run… where? Dean realized he didn't know where to go. He wanted to escape, but where was his safe haven? He didn't have one.

Dean ambled to the door, thinking hard about where he could go while in search of Sam. He couldn't just walk around to find his brother. He needed help. But who would help him?

His hand was resting on the door handle when the bathroom door cracked open and John's head popped out. "Dean," he called, making his son pause. Dean's fingers lingered on the handle a moment longer before he dropped his hand to his side and turned around. "Grab my bag and bring it here." Dean did as he was told, hefting the duffel over his shoulder and taking it to his dad.

"Here," he said, holding the bag out. John reached forward and took the bag, his hand brushing over Dean's. The way his dad's fingers raked over his skin made his stomach churn, and he had to turn around so the grimace on his face wouldn't be seen.

"Get dressed. FBI wear, suit and tie," John ordered, disappearing behind the door.

Dean dressed faster than he ever had before. The fear of his dad coming out of the bathroom to find his son half-naked drove him to whip his clothes off and throw his suit on with agility he didn't know he had. When the two of them got into the car and drove away from Lawrence, Dean was still trying to come up with a place to go when he escaped.

* * *

"Mark Lehman, FBI," John greeted in an authoritative voice. He flashed a fake ID, prompting his son to do the same. "This is my partner, Trevor Plank." After they tucked the illegal IDs back into their suit jackets John continued. "We're here about the recent happenings in this neighborhood."

They were in some small town in Colorado, chasing a case that sounded like a poltergeist. Three people in the past month-and-a-half had died in the same home, each of the victims being new homeowners. It actually sounded somewhat interesting, but Dean couldn't focus long enough to really get into the case.

_I won't hurt you… Just lie down with me… _He felt sick to his stomach. He had tried to forget about what happened the night before, but it kept running through his mind. His dad's murmurs in his ear played over and over in his head, and he could still feel the damp breath on the back of his neck. Ghostly fingers groped his sides, running up and down his back, squeezing and touching his shoulders.

What really killed Dean was the fact that now he looked over and saw the same man, prim and proper, an FBI agent from the stars. The same man that left welts on his back and touched him in ways that made him want to vomit could clean up in a split second, charming his way through yet another family member of some victim of a supernatural creature. No one else saw what Dean saw. No one else saw the monster that hid not under, but _in_ his bed.

"Plank… Mr. Plank… _Trevor_." John's voice forced Dean out of his thoughts and into reality. He blinked and looked around, seeing his dad glaring at him intensely. Behind him, the neighbor of the poltergeist house was staring at Dean strangely.

"Sorry, what?" Dean cleared his throat and stood up straighter.

"I said go get some files from the car, but maybe I should accompany you, seeing as you are clearly out of it today." John gave him a look that warned him not to say anything, and the two of them walked to the car. When they disappeared out of the line of sight of the victim's neighbor, a hand was suddenly on the back of Dean's neck, squeezing tightly. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dean winced and fought the urge to grab his dad's wrist and pull it away. "I'm sorry," he squeaked out.

"No, you're distracted," John corrected, finally letting go. He leaned in close to Dean, so their noses were only a few inches apart. "You need to focus. You don't think I've got things on my mind? I'm sure I've got it a whole Hell of a lot worse, so you need to get over yourself."

He was too close. Dean could feel his heart starting to beat rapidly in response to the close vicinity of his dad. He could smell his sour breath, see every hair he missed while shaving, and feel the puffs of breath as his dad spoke. Dean couldn't breathe, let alone speak, so he just nodded in response. Fortunately, that was enough for John, as he just glared once more before walking away.

His mind whirled uneasily, and Dean had to put a hand on the Impala to steady himself. His knees felt too weak to hold himself up, and he bent over, feeling like he was about to be sick. When nothing came up, he reached into his jacket with a shaky hand, retrieving something from a pocket. He had to lean on the car and use both hands to hold the phone, and Dean couldn't even see the screen with the way his eyes were watering. Even when he did manage to blink away the wetness, his fingers were trembling so badly it took him three tries to hit the right numbers. He held the phone to his ear, closing his eyes tightly and waiting.

_First ring… _That's fine; no one picks up on the first ring. _Second ring… _Alright, the phone might be in the other room. _Third… _Pick up, pick up, pick up. _Fourth… _Dean felt his face tensing up, and his chest swelled with hurt.

"Hello?" Dean sucked in a breath that sounded too much like a sob. One hand went to his hair, running through it stressfully. He was so relieved to hear the voice, an answer that almost didn't come, that he forgot to reply. "_Hello_?"

"Bobby," Dean said in the calmest voice he could muster, holding back tears and a thankful smile. "I need help."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Alright, boy, just calm down a second and breathe," Bobby said over the phone. Dean put a hand over his mouth, trying to control his gasping. He blinked away the wetness from his eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to avoid causing a scene. The last thing he needed was for his dad to come back. "Now," he continued, "what is going on?"

"I'm sorry, I just—" Dean cut himself off, taking a moment to think about how much he could tell Bobby. He trusted the man with his life; Hell, he was a better dad than his own most of the time. Still, he didn't want to tell him everything. This was too personal, and it felt wrong to dump it all on the other hunter. "Look, I just need somewhere to go for a while. Can I stay with you? Please?" He looked up at the sky, his left foot tapping a wild beat on the ground fervently.

"Well, yeah, I guess that's alright. I was expecting more of a hunting-related emergency, but if it's a place to crash you need, I can deliver that, too." Bobby chuckled over the phone, and the sound was oddly comforting to Dean. "You can have John drop you off here—"

"No!" Silence followed Dean's short outburst, and he struggled desperately to find any way to come back from that. "I mean… Uh, I don't…"

"Dean, what the hell is going on? Is John ok?" _Oh, he's something, _Dean thought, biting his tongue.

"Yeah, he's fine. I just," Dean paused again, taking a deep breath. The problem was trying to find a way of saying things without giving anything away. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, contemplating before continuing. "I'd really appreciate it if he didn't find out about this." Dean closed his eyes, waiting for something to happen. Would Bobby be mad? Would he hang up? What if he told John?

"_Dean_…" Bobby's voice was laced with warning, and Dean was afraid he would outright refuse to be any part of this. "You're telling me you are coming to my place, and I'm supposed to keep you under your dad's radar?"

Dean started to tap his foot again, the sick feeling in his stomach returning. "Yes," he clipped, holding his breath.

Bobby swore under his breath, the sound barely reaching the phone. "Boy, I'm assuming you've got a good reason for this, so that's why I'm saying yes." Dean let out a stream of air, still feeling too sick to even smile in relief. "But now we need to get you here without your dad's car. Where are you now?"

"Northern Colorado," Dean explained, his voice shaking.

"Alright, that's not so bad. I can manage to meet you halfway." Bobby mumbled to himself for a few seconds. "In Nebraska there's some folks I know. They can house you until I get there." The sound of shuffling papers followed.

"They wouldn't happen to own a roadhouse, would they?" Dean laughed humorlessly.

"Actually, yeah," Bobby said, sounding a little surprised. "The Harvelles. You know them?"

"Kind of." Dean recalled the people in his mind, feeling a little anxious. He hadn't exactly left them on the best of terms. The mother was screaming at him, and the daughter probably thought he was a jerk.

"Well, you'll get to know them now."

"Ok," Dean replied uneasily. "How do I get there from here?" He felt childish asking, but he wasn't sure he could think straight long enough to find a way on his own. It was at the point where he needed to lean on someone else to get to the end.

"Find a truck stop. There'll be someone going to Nebraska, and you can hitch a ride and stop off when you're close to the roadhouse. You know where it is?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Dean," Bobby started, his voice gruff as ever. There was a hint of something like sympathy hidden in it, though, and Dean could hear it clear as day. "Are you sure everything's ok?" Silence followed as Dean contemplated his answer. Finally, he realized he couldn't answer, honestly or otherwise.

"I'll see you at the roadhouse, Bobby." He was afraid the man would persist, but at least for the moment, he didn't.

"Alright. I'll meet you halfway."

* * *

Dean was finding it difficult to actually leave. He told himself he was waiting for the opportune moment, but in all honesty, he was just starting to think it was a bad idea. He and his dad had finished up the investigation at the house with a poltergeist, and now they were at a motel, researching further to make sure of what they were dealing with. So far, his dad had been acting just fine. He didn't yell once, he kept his distance, and he was actually speaking to his son like an equal hunter. Dean felt like things weren't so bad, and he was beginning to think he had imagined it all, or at least he had overreacted.

"I think we're definitely dealing with a poltergeist," Dean offered, closing a book with assurance. He set it aside and leaned back in his chair, stretching.

"I think you're right," John replied, nodding at whatever he was reading. "All the signs are there. I say we go tomorrow and get rid of it." He sighed contentedly and tossed the book aside. "For now, what say me and you have a little chat?"

Immediately, any thought of staying with John left Dean's mind. The way his dad was looking at him made Dean feel like something was coming. His skin started to itch uncontrollably. They never just had chats for the fun of it; that would entail some sort of normalness in their family. Instead, they had stern lectures, followed by punishment.

"About what?" Dean asked, trying to remain calm. He managed to make his voice come off coolly, with no added trembling.

John leaned back comfortably in his own chair, across from his son. His fingers tapped a small rhythm on the tabletop.

"Who were you talking to on the phone?" The question was simple enough, and John's voice gave nothing away. It almost sounded friendly, if anything. There was no accusation in his face, and his posture wasn't tense or forceful. Still, Dean felt like he couldn't answer.

"What are you talking about?" Dean tried to keep his face nonchalant, but he could feel the mask slipping.

"Today, at the house, you were talking to someone on the phone. Who was it?" John's face was impassive, and Dean struggled to figure out if he was angry or just truly curious.

"I wasn't talking to anyone," he replied, licking his lips.

"And now you're lying to me." John stopped tapping his fingers and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "I'm starting to think you've got something to hide, boy."

Dean chuckled nervously. "I don't know what—"

"You're just gonna keep on lying, aren't you?" His eyes squinted. "I _saw_ you. You were crying into the phone like a little bitch, looking pretty damn happy. I didn't think much of it, really. You're allowed to talk to people. But now that I know you're trying to keep it secret, I'm thinking it's a bigger deal than I thought." His expression remained emotionless, which only seemed to make him more menacing. "So," he growled, "who were you talking to?"

Dean protectively sealed his lips, sitting up straighter in his seat. He couldn't tell his dad who he had been talking to. It wouldn't only put himself in danger, but Bobby, too. If John knew what they were talking about… Well, it wouldn't be good.

"Not going to tell me?" The side of John's mouth quirked upward the slightest bit. Dean faltered before shaking his head submissively. "Thought not." He stood slowly and stepped toward his son, the movements leisurely and precise. As he disappeared behind his son's chair, Dean felt the hairs on the back on his neck rise.

John's footsteps stopped, and Dean could feel eyes burning holes into the back of his head. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder, knowing exactly what he would find.

A strong hand gripped the back of Dean's neck, and he stifled a gasp at how hard it was squeezing.

"Get up," John ordered. Dean did as he said, being led to the center of the room by the tight handhold around his neck. "Now," he continued, letting go, "who was on the phone?" Dean stayed silent, staring at the floor so he didn't have to make eye contact with his dad.

John kneed his son in the stomach roughly, making Dean bend over with a grunt. He sucked in a few small breaths, clutching at his shirt. The pain in his ribcage throbbed again, and he screwed up his face.

"Well?" John asked calmly. The worst part of all this was the fact that John was completely sober. Dean hadn't seen him take a single swig of anything alcoholic that day, so there was no excusing it. His dad just outright wanted to beat the shit out of him.

Dean straightened himself out and let his arms drop limply. He looked his dad in the eye, sucking in a sure breath.

"Who was on the phone?" John demanded.

"No one." Dean gritted his teeth.

* * *

At three in the morning, Dean pushed himself off the floor, catching himself on the wall when his legs nearly gave out. His body was still shaking as he tip-toed across the room, dodging a broken lamp and drawers that were strewn about the room.

From the bed, a loud snore made his heartbeat spike. His dad was still deep asleep, though, tired from chasing his son around the room. Dean hadn't meant to start running, but eventually the pain had forced him to take action. He had sprinted from corner to corner for a while, trying to dodge a few hits. It hadn't worked, really.

But he didn't tell his dad about Bobby, and that was the important part. The fact that he'd been beaten into unconsciousness was just a detail.

Dean's whole body ached as he snuck forward. He could barely see out of his left eye it was so swollen, and his legs felt like they were going to collapse if he stood still too long. He could feel the blood and sweat that soaked his shirt and continued to run down his neck and back, but he chose to ignore it. He ignored everything, just trying to keep walking. If he could keep walking, he could get out. If he could get out…

Dean fell against the motel door, catching hold of the handle and pushing himself back up. His muscles screamed in protest, willing him to collapse and pass out. He pressed forward, turning the handle and letting in the night air. It swirled around him, but it wasn't suffocating. It was the exact opposite, actually. He felt like he could finally breathe.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that his dad was still hidden underneath bed covers. Dean turned away and walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

* * *

**Notes: **Yay he's free! Or is he...

Thank you so much for the responses I'm getting, by the way. I'm very please that you guys like where it's going, and are giving me some input. I wasn't sure if I should bring Bobby into this, but when people suggested him, I figured I should just go with my gut and include him. I love Bobby anyway, so it's a win-win. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Paul Miller had been driving trucks cross-country for seventeen years. In those seventeen years, he had given rides to a comical assortment of people. Anything from rebellious adolescents trying to piss off their parents, to a half-senile elder who had just escaped the nursing home, and even a sideshow clown that had missed his bus. Paul never refused someone a ride, figuring they would just find another instead of going back to where they should be. It was better that he be giving the rides than some whack-job serial killer.

So in all his years of giving rogue souls rides to all sorts of places, Paul had come to get used to seeing some unpleasant things and hearing some unpleasant stories. He had grown accustomed to having a crying person sitting beside him as he rode on, and, if he was being honest, he had come to enjoy listening to everyone's stories, happy or not.

He had heard every story there was out there a million times over. He had seen every sort of person there was to see, and had taken them every which way in America. But Paul had never in his seventeen years of driving met someone quite like the young man sitting beside him on his way to Nebraska.

He picked him up in northern Colorado at a truck stop. The kid— he couldn't have been more than 21, really— had been wandering around, snaking in and out between the trucks, lurking in the shadows, as if he was afraid to come out. Paul had called out to him quietly, not wanting to scare him. Still, the kid jumped out of his skin.

"Hey," Paul said, making his presence known. The kid spun on his heel, wide-eyed and curled in on himself. "What're you doing?"

"Sorry, sir," he replied shakily, backing away.

"Don't be sorry, kid, I was just asking." Paul held up his hands, trying to be friendly. The kid seemed to get the hint and stepped forward a little. "Where you heading?"

"North," he stated, coming a lot closer. "To Nebraska."

Paul had had to force himself not to gape when the kid stepped up close to him. He had looked an absolute mess; bruised and swollen face, hunkered shoulders, and lowered head. Both eyes were surrounded by dark circles, and Paul couldn't tell if they were bruises or just from a lack of sleep. The kid looked exhausted, as if he'd pass out at any moment. One arm was wrapped tightly around his mid-riff, refusing to budge. The other arm hung limply at his side.

Paul had seen a lot of people in bad conditions, but this was by far one of the worst ones. He couldn't have refused the ride even if he was going in the opposite direction. Fortunately, Nebraska was where he was headed.

So now Paul was driving on the highway, his radio playing quietly, mostly static at this point. He had one hand on the wheel, and the other hanging loosely out the window, weaving through the wind to the beat of the music. Beside him, curled up on the seat, the kid was fast asleep. He had passed out cold after twenty minutes, his head bonking on the window as he drifted off. Before he fell asleep, the only thing Paul had managed to get out of him was his name: Dean. Other than that, he was silent.

Usually guys his age were dying to tell their story. Sure, they would start off a little angsty, staring out the window, making vague comments. But after a while, they'd give in and start blabbing. Not this one, though. Dean had been adamant about zipping his lips. Even getting his name was like coaxing a squirrel to eat from your palm.

He could tell Dean had a story, though. The way he held himself said someone had broken him, and Paul was assuming some sort of abusive relationship. Of what kind, he wasn't sure. The purple marks on his face covered up even older ones, so that said it had been going on for a while. All of the marks that broke skin were brand new, some of them even still bleeding a little. One particular cut across Dean's jaw looked more painful than the rest, deep enough that blood had seeped out enough to drip and stain a large portion of his shirt. The fact that all of the cuts were new told Paul that this last beating had been a breaking point, and that was when Dean had decided to run.

It was all speculation, of course, but Paul was fairly certain it was somewhere along those lines.

Paul let Dean sleep for a couple more hours before he reached over and nudged him. The prod was gentle enough, but the kid still jerked awake and pressed himself against the opposite side of the truck defensively.

Definitely abused.

"Sorry, Dean," Paul apologized. He waited for him to get comfortable and calm down before going on. "Where exactly are you going? We're in Nebraska now, and I don't know where you want to be let off. I'm heading to the Northeast, so if you're going in that region you can just stick with me the whole ride."

Dean was quiet, still getting his bearings. He ran fingers over his face, wincing as they brushed bruises and cuts. "Um… Central Nebraska. That's where it is."

"Where what is?" Paul looked over, hoping to get some detail of this kid's story. Other than what he was piecing together, this kid was a big mystery.

"The place I'm going." Damn. That didn't tell him much. Still, he didn't want to pry, so he just nodded.

"Alright. I'm guessing a couple more hours, then I'll drop you off somewhere. I'll need to get gas, so I'll let you off at a station. That alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Dean sighed and stared straight ahead, watching the road intently. Paul was the one driving and he didn't have his eyes focused that hard on the road. After a few minutes of watching the kid study the fast-moving pavement, Paul couldn't help himself.

"So what's your story, if you don't mind me asking?" He expected either a grudging tale or more silence to follow. Maybe even a lash of anger at his nosy attitude. What he got was a little surprising.

"What's _your_ story?" Dean looked away from the road, his eyes bright and curious through the splotchy marks on his face. It was hard to tell exactly what his expression was conveying, but from what Paul could tell the kid seemed pretty earnest.

"Don't really have an interesting story," Paul said honestly, chuckling.

"And I'm sure you've heard my story a thousand times," he retaliated, shrugging. "What's your story?"

Paul smiled and shook his head. "Alright, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you." They both laughed. "I got into driving trucks when I was young, about your age. I needed money, and the job was there. I didn't really have a family, so constantly being on the move wasn't a problem. My parents unofficially disowned me when I was a teenager because I got my sweetheart pregnant. She ran off with her family to God-knows where, so I don't even know if she had the kid or not. I'd like to think she did, and they're a happy family now, but I honestly don't know." Paul looked over to gage his reaction, and Dean was simply staring at him, listening politely.

"So I left home when I was sixteen," he continued. "Dropped out of school, avoided the law, and so on. Stayed with a nice man in Boston for a couple of years, but he got arrested for possessing child pornography, so I had to find somewhere else to live. Went to Texas, realized it was real damn hot down there, and came back North. When I was twenty-three, I started driving trucks. And now here I am." Paul sighed contentedly and nodded to himself. Dean chuckled softly from the other seat. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head.

"What?" he pressed, smiling. Dean grinned and turned to him.

"You've got an interesting life, that's all." He nodded and sighed. "Wish I had one like it." Dean grew silent again, slumping a little in his seat. Paul had planned on egging the story out of him in exchange for his own, but the kid looked miserable, so he decided not to pry any further.

Two and a half hours later, Paul pulled into a gas station to fill up. Dean silently slid out of his own seat and onto the pavement, his feet slapping the ground loudly. He walked slowly to the other side of the truck to stop beside the driver, and they stood there without saying a word for a moment.

"It was my dad," Dean said after a while, looking at his shoes.

"What?" Paul scrunched his eyebrows together.

"My dad did this to me." He looked up so Paul could see his battered face again, in all its swollen, discolored glory.

"Oh," he muttered, not sure what to say. Another silence followed, consuming them entirely.

The pump clicked, indicating that the tank was full. Paul returned the pump to its place, his movements slow. Beside him, Dean rocked back and forth on his heels and toes. They both knew they needed to be on their way.

"Thank you," Dean said, staring at the ground again. His voice was quiet and clipped, but it was grateful nonetheless.

"You gonna be okay?" Paul asked, one hand on the door handle. Dean nodded after a moment, looking up and smiling slightly. The older man grinned back, opening his door. "Good. Now go. Make a story that's happier than mine."

Paul drove off, watching Dean in his rearview mirror until he disappeared from sight. He'd do just fine. Any kid that could take that sort of beating was strong enough to bounce back. He had heard that story before, and he knew how it would end.

* * *

**Notes: **I hope you guys liked this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it and I like it, but I'm not so sure if you guys will think it was boring or not. Sorry if you do :P

But three cheers for Paul, the random helpful stranger, right? :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes: **This chapter is a bit longer than the others... Wouldn't get used that if I were you. Lol

* * *

**Chapter 8**

_Left foot, breathe in, right foot, breathe out, blink, left foot…_

Dean was running on automatic, forcing himself to focus on little tasks like breathing and continuing to walk_. _He was afraid if he stopped thinking about it, he'd forget to do it and simply pass out on the side of the road. He'd been walking for about two hours, and he wasn't going to stop yet. He was so close.

But his body had other ideas. Dean stumbled, forgetting to bring his left foot down. He clutched at his side and paused to catch his breath. His entire body felt like it was giving up. His feet were numb, his face was aching, and his lungs were desperately trying to suck in air that he couldn't quite get a hold of. A cut on his arm had started to bleed again, but he chose to ignore it, not sure if he could even focus on another thing at the moment. As it was, he kept forgetting to bring down his left foot.

_Left foot, breathe in, right foot, breathe out…_

Dean kept going, still holding his side and wincing with every step. He was figuring the roadhouse was about two more miles away, but in his mind he told himself ten so when he arrived upon it quickly, the relief would be even bigger.

He was kind of scared of what would happen when he got there. Considering how he left the Harvelles the last time, he was sure they wouldn't be thrilled to see him again. He kept playing possible situations out in his mind, each more awful than the last.

_"You'll be sleeping outside," Ellen stated matter-of-factly, her face rigid. "Considering how much of a burden you've given us, I think it's only fair." She pointed out the door into the cool night air. "Now go."_

Dean shivered at the thought, but figured he could live with that for a few days until Bobby showed up.

_"Why the Hell would we take you in?" Jo accused, her face scowling. "You were nothing but rude to me."_

_ "I'm not having that in my house," Ellen added, wrapping an arm around her daughter. "You can go back home to your dad for all I care." _

He swallowed hard, a nervous feeling sitting in his stomach like a rock. The thought of having to go back to his dad was terrifying and unthinkable. He just _couldn't_. That wasn't even an option.

_"You can just turn right back around, Dean," Ellen said, shooing him away like a pesky fly. "I told Bobby I'm not taking you in, so he's not coming down to get you. No way am I letting you into my house. You and your father can rot in Hell." _

Dean started to feel panicked. Where was he supposed to go if they didn't take him in? If Bobby never came for him? He couldn't go back to his dad, but there was absolutely nowhere else to go. Sam was gone, and he was the only other family Dean had. If this didn't go as planned, he was screwed.

Dean had to stop walking, and after a short moment, he had to sit down. His legs were trembling uncontrollably, and his head was spinning. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt like someone was smothering him, not letting any air into his lungs. He gasped feebly, trying to catch his breath, but it didn't work. It was like someone had a tight grip around his throat, choking him. Dean buried his face in his lap, unsure of what to do. He felt like he was dying, but there was nothing for him to fight back against. He was helpless.

Something pressed itself onto his shoulder, and Dean's head shot up in alarm. He blinked back into reality, trying to see past a haze. His whole body was still shaking, and he tried to pull away from the weight on his shoulder. It took him a few moments to realize it was someone's hand.

"Dean?" A voice made itself present, and Dean desperately tried to understand whose it was, and what they were saying. "Are you alright? Dean?" He coughed heavily, trying to suck in enough air to say something back. Even if he did have enough air, he wasn't sure if he could focus long enough to come up with a response.

The hand on his shoulder disappeared, and the shuffling of feet sounded by Dean's head. He tried to push himself off the ground, where he had apparently fallen over in his haste to get away. His mind still reeled uncomfortably.

"Jo," the voice called out. Dean struggled to understand the meaning of what was being said, but focusing on more than one thing at a time was becoming impossible, and breathing seemed more important than understanding. "Jo, get Ash! Hurry!"

After a minute, more hands were all over Dean, and he tried to push them away weakly. They were suffocating him more, making it harder to breathe. But they were stronger than he was, and pushing at them proved to be futile. His arms felt like heavy weights, impossible to move, so Dean let them drop, and he let his head fall back, everything turning dark.

* * *

Dean heard voices when he came to, faint at first but rapidly growing clearer. He took a deep breath, glad to have his throat and lungs working again. His body still felt weak, but he was feeling a lot better than before he passed out.

With a tired groan, he opened his eyes, squinting as light bore down on him. Dean sat up where he was, looking at a tattered couch beneath him. It was soft and bowed under his every movement. He had never seen it before in his life.

"How're you feeling?" Dean looked up at the sudden voice, seeing Ellen. Instantly, every thought he had been having about what would happen when he got to the roadhouse sprung up again, and he could feel his palms start to tingle.

"I'm ok," Dean croaked, his throat dry. He figured he could probably walk now, if he needed to. If they kicked him out on the street, his legs may just hold up.

"I don't know about that," she muttered, looking at his face. Dean tried to ignore the fact that he was being examined, looking down at his lap instead of at Ellen. He twiddled his fingers, but something on his wrist caught his eye. He rolled up one sleeve, looking at a cut on his arm that had been neatly stitched up.

"What…" Dean furrowed his brow, trying to recall when he had done that.

"Oh, yeah, we sewed that up for you," Ellen interrupted his thought process. "You're in pretty bad shape. We cleaned your cuts as best as we could and took care of the deep ones, but I'm guessing we didn't get all of them." She pursed her lips and looked at his chest, as if she could see through the cloth if she stared long enough. Dean shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

Despite the awkward moments when Ellen was looking him up and down, Dean figured this was going better than expected. At least they wouldn't kick him out violently. Still, he was aware they could send him out at any moment to be on his way.

"There's a shower upstairs," Ellen continued, pointing behind her. "I realize you've been through a hard time with your dad and everything, but Dean," she smiled jokingly, "you kind of smell." He snorted out a laugh, mostly relieved. She wasn't mad. She didn't hold a grudge against him or anything. She was actually very welcoming, it seemed. She…

She knew.

_…you've been through a hard time with your dad and everything… _Why else would she say that? Dean's face fell, and his heart hammered in his chest. That was the only reason she took him in. She pitied him.

But _how_ did she know? Dean smiled at her, though it didn't reach his eyes, and walked off to head to the shower, all the while thinking about what gave it away. Had he said something in his sleep? Was it just really obvious? Dean shook his head, turning on the shower.

After ten minutes of incessantly scrubbing his body, ridding it of filth, Dean realized the only way that Ellen could have figured it out. He shut off the water and leapt out of the tub, not even drying himself properly before dressing. Dripping water onto the floor, he made his way around the hall, peering into rooms, looking for a particular person. Behind the door at the end of the hall, he found her.

"Jo," he growled, entering the room. The young girl looked up from her bed, setting aside a book. She stared at the sopping figure before her, looking confused more than anything.

"Dean…?"

"You told her," he accused, trying to seem intimidating. He realized he was standing in a growing puddle of water, drops falling from his hair as he spoke. He wasn't intimidating; he was ridiculous. Still, he went on, angry about everything that was happening to him. "The day we met, in the car, you guessed who beat me up. You _knew_ it was my dad." Jo sat up on the bed now, intrigued. She looked at him apologetically. "So you told your _mom_?"

"I'm sorry, Dean," she insisted. "I just—"

"You _told_ your _mom_," he nearly shouted, accenting his words with glares. "Why the hell would you do that?" He ran a hand through his wet hair, sending droplets onto the ground. "No, I know why you did it. You're a stupid little girl who runs off and tattles on people. Grow up, and—"

It was Jo's turn to cut him off. She leapt from the bed, lunging toward him with a finger pointed in his face. If looks could kill, Dean would have been strung up by his toes and gutted brutally. "You can shut the Hell up right now, buddy," she spat, her lip curling up. "You have no idea why I told her. When you and your dad drove off, she starting ranting about how dangerous it is to let your kids hunt. She went on about how terrible it was that he let you get hurt like that. She said she would _never_ let me do that. _Never_." Dean started to take a step back, but Jo only followed, her voice growing harsher.

"Considering I want to be a hunter, that was a little hard to hear," she hissed, her scowl growing deeper. "So yeah, I told her you didn't get it from hunting. I told her it was your dad, not your job. So sue me for telling the truth so I have a better shot at becoming a hunter. My bad," she intoned sarcastically. Jo, seemingly done with her rant, stepped out of his face. Dean simply stared at her, a little frightened.

"I didn't…" he trailed off, frowning.

"Dean? Jo?" Ellen's voice broke the tension in the room, and both of them turned to see her step into the room. Ellen looked at the two of them strangely, then gestured behind her with a flick of her head. "Lunch is about ready." They both nodded, and she turned to leave, but before she did Ellen looked over at Dean. "I'd appreciate it if you weren't alone in a room with my daughter again."

"Mom!" Jo exclaimed, her face turning pink. Ellen left smiling, heading down the stairs for lunch and leaving the two of them to stand there awkwardly.

"Uh…" Dean cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Jo. "For the record, I would never… Well, we're not… I don't…" He desperately searched for the right words, but none were coming to his lips. _Neither will Jo, _he thought, though he was sure that wouldn't be the right thing to say. Thankfully, she just nodded and walked out the door, pausing momentarily to look back at him.

"Oh, and if you ever call me a little girl again, I'll castrate you on the spot." With that, she left the room, and Dean reluctantly followed, feeling like he had just been objectified for being the only man there.

* * *

Dean had been wrong about being the only man in the house, as he was staying in Ash's small room. He had resisted, not wanting to kick the guy out of his own bed, but Ash had insisted, stating that the pool table was more comfortable anyway, and that it would give him an excuse to drink until he felt like he had alcohol poisoning.

So he agreed to stay in the room until Bobby could pick him up, but he wasn't so sure the pool table wouldn't be a better choice. The bed sheets smelled like beer and faintly of piss, the whole room gave off the stench of something eerily similar to pot, and Dean felt like he was getting high by just breathing in the air.

Still, it was better than nothing.

Dean was starting to feel a little better now that he was away from his dad. He could bury himself in the sheets and pillow, letting out a relieved sigh. In a few days, Bobby would come get him, and he could be away for good. He could finally start his search for Sam. The thought of it alone made Dean relax.

On the bedside table, Dean's phone buzzed quietly, alerting him of a phone call. He reached over and picked it up, staring groggily at the screen. The moment he registered the name flashing across the screen, he sat up straight in bed, his chest squeezing tightly.

_Dad._

* * *

**Notes: **Also, I wanted to let you guys know I'm going to Boston for a week starting Thursday, so when I don't update that's why. :P


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes:** Oh my gOD HOW DID THAT EVEN HAPPEN?

I'm so sorry for that... I uploaded the wrong chapter. I... I don't even know how I did that... I'm sorry. Let's try this again.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_Don't answer it. Don't answer it. Do _not_ answer it. _

Dean tossed his phone onto the foot of the bed, out of arm's reach, so he wouldn't be as tempted to press it to his ear and answer. He wanted more than anything to hear his dad's voice again, but he didn't want to hear what he had to say. No matter how much he wished his dad would be apologetic and begging him to come back, he knew it wouldn't happen. Whatever he had to say, it wouldn't make Dean feel any better.

The phone stopped buzzing and lighting up, leaving the room dark and silent once more. Dean breathed out uneasily, trying to calm down his heart. He hadn't even realized he had curled himself into a protective ball, but apparently he had. He forcibly relaxed his body, though he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arms around his middle and squeezing tightly.

As much as he tried to deny it, he wished he had answered the phone. Even if all his dad did was scream at him and tell him what a piece of shit he was, he couldn't help but think that at least his dad had taken the time to call him. And then here was Dean, who didn't even have the decency to _answer_ him.

He really was a piece of shit.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and Dean startled in response, forcing himself to look more relaxed than he was. He made his arms drop awkwardly to his sides and rested his head back on the headboard, but he felt, and could tell he looked, uncomfortable.

It was Ellen who slipped into the room. Dean turned on the bedside lamp and smiled as she sat beside him on the bed. She looked different than she had earlier. Her hair was pulled back, and all she wore was a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sweats. She looked comfortable, and her expression was softer than it had been before.

"How're you holding up?" Ellen asked, smoothing out the comforter beneath her fingers. Her voice was pacifying and motherly, making Dean physically relax. He lifted his head from the headboard and sat up, watching her fingers run over the sheet.

"I'm good," he said. He nodded for a moment, but it dwindled into him just staring at his lap.

"Don't lie to me, Dean," Ellen insisted, maneuvering herself to she was facing him more. Her eyes rested on his, but they weren't judgmental or scolding; they were full of gentleness. He realized that she really did want to listen to him and help. He almost felt a little bad for thinking she would kick him out on the street rashly. All of those situations he had played out in his head seemed ridiculous now.

"Sorry, I just…" Dean laughed at himself, rubbing wetness from his eyes. His throat was starting to knot up, making it hard to talk without his voice quivering. "I…" He hiccupped another laugh, fighting the tears he could feel springing up.

"It's alright. I know, sweetie," she crooned, reaching forward and taking his hands in hers. Her fingers rubbed his palms soothingly, and without his hands free to wipe his face, Dean could feel a few tears dripping down his cheeks. He felt embarrassed, but Ellen didn't seem fazed. "I don't know what John did to you, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you need to get it out somehow. You can't just keep it bottled up like you do."

At this, Dean lost it even more, and he had to pull away from her touch to wipe his face. He wanted to get it out of his mind, not just his mouth. He wished he could forget everything that had happened, and just push it from his memory forever. Saying what happened out loud wouldn't help; it'd just make him think about it. If he shoved it to the back of his mind, he hoped, eventually, it would be forgotten.

"Honey, you gotta talk about something. Anything. Just get it out," Ellen said quietly, moving closer to Dean on the bed. She hesitantly put an arm around his shoulders, though the hesitation was more from trying not to startle him than actual uneasiness. Her hand rubbed circles on his back, and Dean couldn't help but lean into her embrace while he tried to stop crying. He was being ridiculous, he knew, but he just couldn't stop.

"Sh-should I have left?" Dean finally asked. He held his breath, half in attempt to stop crying and half out of anticipation.

"What do you mean?" Ellen never stopped rubbing his back, and almost seemed to hug him tighter as he spoke, encouraging him to continue.

"My dad… He never really…" Dean sniffed and pulled out of the hug reluctantly, trying to pick the right words. "He didn't actually…" He tried, really, to say it, but the word stuck in his throat, choking him. "Nothing _happened._ But I left him anyway. I was afraid it would, but the more I think about it…" Dean trailed off, wiping his face. For now, he managed to stop crying. "What if I left for no reason?"

"Dean, I am sorry, but if you think nothing happened you need to look at yourself in the mirror." The abrupt change in her tone made Dean look up in slight shock. She had been so warm and kind, and suddenly she sounded upset. "Now, I don't know what you mean when you say he didn't _do_ anything," her voice cracked a little, and she took a deep breath. "But he most certainly did hurt you. When you got here you passed out, and you looked like death. The way you walk around, I can tell you're hurting, and not just from the bruises and cuts." Ellen reached forward and took his hand, enclosing it both of hers. "You left for a damn good reason, Dean. Don't you ever go back to him, ok?"

Dean could only nod, his throat knotting up again. She released his hand, and it dropped onto the comforter, feeling naked and cold. She bid him goodnight and left, and Dean waited a few minutes before quietly escaping into the hallway bathroom.

Dean turned the light on in the bathroom and shielded his eyes for a moment, letting them adjust. He made his way over to the mirror, but it took longer than he expected to get up the nerve to look at himself. He really didn't want to see himself, but at the same time he did. He laughed at himself humorlessly. He was being stupid. Bracing his hands on the counter, he looked up and stared at the person in the mirror.

There was someone in the mirror. Certainly it wasn't Dean, though. He tilted his head, and the person looking back at him did the same. When he tilted it the other way, the person did the same again. This couldn't be him. It just couldn't.

The man in the reflection was completely broken. He wouldn't stand up straight, and looked caved in on himself. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were permanently turned down at the edges. His skin was ashy and his eyes were sullen, and he looked both terrified and depressed at the same time.

This was not Dean.

Dean hastily shut off the light and stumbled into the hall, feeling his way back to his room. When he got there, he fell to the bed on his hands and knees, and he was unable to move from that position. He had already cried, but his throat stung like he was about to start again.

Not wanting to lose it, Dean moved robotically. He automatically grabbed his phone to put on the bedside table before sleeping, but the lit-up screen distracted him. He looked at the phone, reading '_voicemail_' across the top.

_Don't listen to it. Don't listen to it. Do _not_ listen to it. _

Unlike with the phone call, Dean couldn't bring himself to toss the phone aside. He tucked himself into the covers of the bed, making himself as comfortable as possible. When he started to feel smothered by the sheets, he brought the phone up in front of his face. His finger only hesitated a moment before he pressed '_listen_'.

* * *

Sam was finishing up an essay for a college application when he got the phone call that made his heart skip a beat. At first, he thought he read the name on his phone wrong. Then, he thought he might be dreaming. Finally, he realized it was real, and he had a limited amount of time to decide whether or not to answer.

Since he had left his family, he had received tons of calls. But none of them, not a single one, had been from _him_. Yet there was the name flashing across the screen in simple letters, like it wasn't a big deal to be receiving this call. To all the other calls, he just put the phone aside, not wanting to deal with it quite yet. But this one was different. He wasn't sure if he could make himself put the phone aside for this one.

Sam pushed aside his laptop slowly, still somewhat hoping he would take too long to answer and the call would go to voicemail. At least then he could hear what had to be said without having to immediately answer. But, instead, Sam held up the phone and pressed a button to answer, hesitating before putting it up to his ear.

"Dad?" There was silence on the other line for a moment, making Sam think, again, that he was imagining this whole thing.

"Sammy," his dad finally replied. The pet name rubbed Sam the wrong way, which wasn't exactly a good start to the conversation. Only Dean called him that, and even his brother didn't seem to call him 'Sammy' anymore, since they were growing older.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. He kept his voice even, trying not to sound like any of the emotions that were running through his head. So far, he wasn't sure if the call was going to make him pissed, pleased, or a mixture of the two.

"How's it going?" Sam couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. If this conversation was going to consist of small talk, he figured he shouldn't have picked up at all.

"Fine," he said curtly. He could hear his dad sigh.

"Look… I know you left home because you thought I was being a dick. If I'm being honest with myself," another sigh, "I was definitely a dick. I just wanted to keep you safe, and I went about it in the wrong way. Or, well, the worst way possible." His dad chuckled dully, the sound sending an odd feeling down Sam's spine. "What I'm trying to say… You still there?"

"Yeah," Sam ensured, still keeping his voice from revealing how he felt.

"What I'm trying to say is… I know you probably don't want to come back home. In fact, I'm sure it's the last thing you want to do. But I'm still gonna say I want you to come home. I've made some mistakes, I know that, but I'm trying to fix them. I'm trying to do things differently. I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sorry for dragging you and Dean into this damn lifestyle, and I'm sorry for trying to keep you in it. But I can't change things unless you're here. We can't be a family again without you."

Sam had his eyes closed tightly, and his hand was gripping his thigh just as hard. His dad was completely right; going back was the last thing he wanted to do. He had finally broken away, and had finally become free.

But this was also the first time in his entire life that his dad had apologized to him. Every other time they fought, his dad found excuses or blamed Sam himself. He had actually called him and told him outright that he was sorry, and he said _why_ he was sorry. That was definitely something.

"I am begging you, Sam," his dad continued, a strange tone to his voice. Sam couldn't tell if it was desperation he heard or something unrecognizable. "Dean and I both miss you around here."

_Dean_. Sam sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand. He had been trying not to think too much about his brother, if only because it always made him feel guilty. He hadn't just left his dad when he ran off; he left his brother, too, who hadn't done anything. And even though Sam didn't want to see his dad at all, he would be a complete liar if he said he didn't want to see Dean.

"Please, Sammy," his dad pressed.

"I…" Sam ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his chair. "Where are you guys?"

"Holed up in Northern Colorado. Motel called Harrow Springs. We'll stay here, if you want to come back. We'll wait for you. Or I'll come and get you, if that's what you want." His dad was starting to sound distressed, and Sam tried to hold back a smile even though there was no one around to see it.

"I'll find it," he said after a moment. "I can't promise I'll stay or anything, but I'll at least visit."

He knew he wouldn't stay. Sam was grateful he was going to see his family again, and he hoped his dad would continue to be somewhat pleasant when he got there, but he was positive that this feeling he had of freedom would be better than whatever he felt with the two of them. He would visit them, and he'd try to make things better between them, but in the end, Sam would not stay.


	10. Chapter 10

******Notes: **Oh, look who hasn't updated in forever... I don't even have a good excuse, really. I've been a little busier than normal, but not a whole lot. I just have absolutely no drive lately. Lol I've been lazier than normal.

Sorry, though. The update wasn't suppose to take this long. :/

* * *

**Chapter 10**

Dean was sweating. Or maybe he was just crying. Okay, he was doing both.

It was the middle of night still, so he had to be careful not to wake anyone else up. It was pitch black in the room, and he honestly wasn't sure if he was making noise or not. All he could hear was his heart, and he hoped that it wasn't actually as loud as it sounded to him. As quietly as he could manage, he packed up the few things he had, feeling for them blindly with outstretched arms.

A soft crunch sounded from underneath his foot, and Dean lifted his leg up slowly, stepping away from the area. He knew what it was, though. It was his phone, smashed and broken on the floor. He couldn't help it. Once the message ended, he had just… snapped.

_"I swear to fucking God, Dean, answer your phone…"_

Dean wiped at the wetness on his face, smearing it rather than clearing it off. He sniffed quietly and searched the room until he found what he needed. By the light of his cell phone, he grabbed the pencil and wrote a small note on the back of a stray piece of paper for Ellen. No doubt, she would flip out when she woke up to find an empty room. He hoped the note would soften the blow and, hopefully, keep her from trying to find him.

Dean finished writing the note and looked it over, choking as he read it. He hated lying to Ellen, but he really didn't have a choice. He left it on the end of the bed then reached for his things, taking them with him as he tip-toed out of the room. A few of the floorboards creaked with his weight, but no one seemed to wake up. The entire place was dead, eerily silent and dark.

When Dean finally made his way out the front door, he sucked in a dusty breath, coughing it out violently with a sob.

_"Ok, fine, if you're going to play this game… Your damn brother is on his way here right now. I'm going to tell him _everything._"_

Dean covered his mouth with a sweaty hand, stifling a low keen. He kept walking, tripping over his own feet and almost falling to the ground more than once. He had to get back there. He had to stop his dad. He had to… He had to…

He paused in the darkness long enough to bend over and throw up, trying to keep the noise down. He spat and made himself stand back up, feeling impossibly worse than before.

He regretted listening to the message on his phone, more than anything else he had ever done. His dad's voice played over and over in his mind, getting louder each time. Dean didn't even like knowing what was going to happen, even if Sam was involved. He wished he could be ignorant again. He'd be useless, but he'd be happy.

_"I am going to tell him what a sick fuck you are, and what a little shit you've been to me…" _

Sam couldn't know what had happened. Dean didn't think he could ever look at his brother again if he knew what their dad had done to him. Sam would be repulsed, for one thing. He would see Dean as the disgusting freak that their dad…

Dean shivered and picked up his step. Sam would look at his brother and see someone who was weak and cowardly, too idiotic to even grow up and fight back. Someone who took a hit and turned around, only to take another hit once more. Dean was pathetic, and Sam would know that now.

Worse than that, Sam would no longer see Dean as the strong and protective older brother. When they were little, Sam always looked up to him. What did he have to look up to now? A bruised little bitch? No. He would look _down_ on him now. Dean couldn't save him anymore, so what was the point?

_"You better get your ass back down here, Dean. Sam will be here soon, and if you're not here, I'll do to him what I did to you. I fucking swear, I'll be ten times harder on him…" _

Dean stuck out his thumb, standing a bit too far into the road. Maybe if he was lucky, someone would hit him and kill him. He had no such luck. However, a pick-up truck pulled up next to him, and a middle-aged man leaned toward him through an open window.

"Where to, stranger?" The man in the car grinned up at him through the night, his teeth glinting unnervingly white from the moonlight. His voice was low and smooth, sliding over to Dean and making him shiver. He told him where he was headed, and the guy nodded thoughtfully. "That's a little bit off my course, but I guess I could swing it," he smiled again, "for a price."

Dean soundlessly nodded and got into the vehicle, feeling light-headed and sick. He had money, and he'd give it all away if he could get back to his dad and Sam. That's all that mattered.

_"You get here and I'll let Sam go. But you're a fucking tattle, you know that? I can't have you going around telling people lies. You come down here, and I will kill you. I swear, I will fucking murder you. It's your choice, Dean. You or Sam." _

He would always choose Sam.

* * *

Paul Miller was heading back south when he passed a young kid on the side of the road with his thumb stuck out firmly. He would have continued driving, since he had a schedule to keep, but something about the sight made him pull his truck over and lean out of the window.

"Hey, kid," he called, catching the young man's attention. He beckoned him to come forward, and at closer inspection he noticed the kid was donning a backpack stuffed with what looked like everything he owned. He was lanky and baby-faced, with hair that covered his forehead and fell into his eyes. Paul was taken aback at how young he really looked; there was no way he was any older than eighteen.

"Good evening, sir," the kid responded, looking up to the truck. "Could I catch a ride with you?"

"Where're you headed?"

"Kansas," he said, adjusting the bag on his shoulders.

"Yeah, I'm going through there," Paul said, sitting back in his seat. "Hop in." The kid walked around to the other side of the truck and got in, actually ducking his head to avoid hitting the top. He was taller than he looked from down on the street.

"Thank you, sir," he said breathlessly, setting his bag by his feet.

"Call me Paul," he insisted, "none of that 'sir' stuff." Paul smiled, and the grin he received from the kid was full and friendly, slightly crooked and extremely bright. He chuckled softly and looked down.

"My name is Sam," he introduced, jutting out a hand. Paul took the warm limb in his own and shook, surprised at how open this kid was, considering his young age. And by the looks of the stuffed backpack, it could be assumed that he was running from home, probably. Though why his decided destination was Kansas, of all places, the driver couldn't be sure. As Paul started the truck up again, he tried to look at the kid from out of the corner of his eye, searching for any clues that could give away his story.

"So, Sam," he started after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "what's in Kansas?" He glanced over at the other seat, watching his facial expression. Sam had been looking out the window, watching the passing scenery, so he turned in his seat so they could converse.

"My brother," he answered, the corner of his lips moving up ever so slightly. He took in a deep breath and hesitantly added, "And my dad." His expression was oddly tight when he spoke the last part, and he scratched his nose absently.

Dad issues, it seemed. And he was close with his brother. Paul noted the observations in his mind.

"So you're not running from home, then?" Paul couldn't help but relax a little in his seat. He hated giving rides to runaways. Seeing kids, especially young ones, cutting themselves off from family ties was always depressing. They were young and hopeful, with bright eyes and excited smiles. They'd twitch in their seats and rave on about what their dreams were and where they were headed, but all the while they usually didn't have any real plans on how to get where they wanted to go. They were basically running nowhere.

"No, no," Sam laughed, looking down at his lap. He twiddled his fingers a bit before staring back at the road. "I guess I already did that."

"Running back?" Paul tried, smiling a little. He at least wished Sam would be going back to his brother. He wasn't sure about the father, but the kid seemed excited to see his sibling again.

"Not exactly," he shrugged. "Just visiting." The driver nodded, sensing that this was an area that wasn't going to be waded into, no matter how much he pressed.

"Well, we have a while to go before we get to Kansas, kid," Paul sighed, adjusting his legs and leaning back, "and you look tired." Sam smiled slightly, and it accented the bags under his eyes. "You should get some sleep."

"Yeah, probably," Sam muttered, scrunching down in his seat and leaning his head against the window. He faced away from the driver's seat, but Paul could see that the kid's eyes stayed open, fully awake. He didn't even nod off or take a nap. He was alert the entire ride, but Paul didn't give it away that he knew. Maybe the kid just needed some time to think.

* * *

Jo sat on a bar stool, hugging her arms tightly around her midriff. Ash was behind the bar counter, attending to the drinks and pretending he wasn't hearing the yelling in the other room— his room. Ellen's loud voice carried into every room, so there was no escaping it.

"Bobby Singer, answer your goddamned phone," she screamed, and Jo turned the stool in the other direction, staring out the front door. She was hoping— _praying_— that she would catch a glimpse of a tall figure coming back through the door, explaining why he had been out all night, and why his phone was in pieces on the floor, and why the note had said what it did.

But no matter how long she stared, the figure wouldn't manifest.

Why would he just leave like that? Jo couldn't wrap her mind around why Dean had up and left in the middle of the night like he had. He was finally free, and he was going to stay with Bobby until he got himself together. He had salvation at the tips on his fingers, and he just stopped reaching.

"Bobby! He's gone," Ellen's voice interrupted, making Jo close her eyes tightly. "Dean's gone." There was a long pause. "I don't know! He was doing so well, and this morning… I went into his room and found a note, and he wasn't here."

Jo glanced over at the piece of crumpled paper on the counter, where Ellen had left it when she was storming all around the place. She turned and fingered it lightly, wishing they had read it wrong. But the letters and words on the sheet wouldn't change, and their meaning was the same every time she read it over.

_ Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. Thanks for everything. _

_ Dean_

Short and sweet, like a gunshot.

"I can't get ahold of him, his phone's destroyed," Ellen announced to everyone from the other room. Ash continued to act as if nothing was happening, and Jo got off the stool to go outside. Maybe from out there, she could see Dean coming back.

Yeah. Maybe.

* * *

**Notes: **Alright, alright. I know. It would be completely improbable for Paul to give a ride to both brothers. But you know what? It's fiction. Anyhting can happen in fiction. Especially _fan_fiction. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes: **Trigger warning for this chapter. Rape, but nothing too explicit. Just... heavily implied?

* * *

**Chapter 11**

He didn't care anymore. Dean knew he was a dead man walking, and there was only one destination, so he was just going to get there as quickly as possible and get this over with. He knew exactly what he was heading towards, and he knew that it'd hurt, but he didn't care anymore. He just wanted it to end.

He kept thinking about Sam, though, and that was the only thought that even remotely made him think twice about kicking the bucket. His brother, little Sammy, was the only one in the world that he'd want to be alive for. He wanted to see him get the acceptance letter from whatever college he got into, because Sam's eyes would light up and he'd grin from ear-to-ear. He wanted to see his brother get married and have a kid, because Sam wanted an apple pie life, and goddammit, he would get one. He wanted to see his brother have a _life_. The only way for Sam to get one, though, was for Dean to give up his own.

It was worth it. Maybe he wouldn't be able to see Sam go off to college, or hold his newborn baby, or grow old, but Dean knew his brother would do all of those things and more if given the chance, so the least he could do was hand over that chance. And besides, if he was lucky, there'd be a window in Hell so he could look up and see Sam every so often.

He would do anything for his brother. Dean knew, without a doubt, that he'd cut his heart right out of his chest if it'd save Sam. He could suck up his cowardliness long enough to give his brother a fighting chance. He could do that, if nothing else.

The truck jostled as it drove over a rough patch of ground, making Dean's head thwack against the window. He pulled away from the window and sat up straight in his seat, watching the road out of the front windshield instead. It was still incredibly dark, and one headlight was out on the truck, so only a portion of the road was lit up. The interior of the car was dank and dirty, with a thick layer of dust on the dashboard and an array of cigarette butts littering the floorboard. Some acoustic music with unintelligible lyrics was spewing quietly from the speakers, but apart from that and the clanking from the truck, it was silent. It was humid in the car, but Dean still wrapped his arms around himself, feeling chilly despite the warmth.

"Did I wake you up?" The man beside him coughed a laughed and looked over, flashing a strange smile. Dean forced a small smile in reply and looked back to the road, but he could feel the man's eyes still boring into the side of his head. "I don't think you need much beauty sleep, though, huh?" Dean pretended not to listen, but the statement sent a weird feeling down his spine. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

After a few minutes of complete silence, the man tried to start up a conversation again, and he reached over and hit Dean lightly on the arm, making him jump. He cackled, swerving the car a little before straightening it back out.

"You're a jumpy one, aren't you?"

"Just a little tired," Dean answered, leaning on his door and ignoring the way his skin was crawling.

"Oh, you poor thing," he said with half-mocking sympathy. "I can find a nice motel and we can stop for the night," he added, this time sounding very serious. He had a grin splitting his face in half, and it looked like something from a child's nightmare.

"No, I'm fine," Dean said quickly, his stomach doing a flip. "I need to get somewhere soon. I have people waiting for me." Everything he had been taught about avoiding getting caught up in bad situations starting playing through his mind, but this time it was different than usual. Dean thought it a little sad and funny that facing another person made his mind reel, but being in the face of a demon or monster left him feeling completely calm and logical.

"Well how about you hop into the backseat and take a little cat nap, pretty boy?" Dean glanced at the backseat, considering it for only a moment before he caught a peek of a few dark stains on the seat. He swallowed and stared forward, focusing on breathing.

"No, really, I can make it," he clipped, digging his nails into the cushion beneath him.

"Maybe I _can't_," he insisted.

"If you're tired, I can take over driving for a bit," Dean offered, earning a laugh from the other man. The sound made his chest clench painfully, and he gripped the armrest on the door with tight fingers. From the corner of his eye he could see the man glance over at him.

"Hey, don't grip the door so tight," he warned, reaching out a hand. Dean flinched away, making the man smile mischievously. "You can come over here and grip something else, if you'd like."

"I think I'd like to get out now," he nearly shouted, his heart in his throat. "Please pull over." The truck slowly pulled to the side of the long, abandoned road, the tires hissing softly as it came to a stop. Dean tried to open the door, but it was locked. He hesitantly looked over his shoulder to see the man unbuckling and scooting closer. "Open the door," he ordered, but he even had to admit it didn't sound compelling.

"You think I'm gonna give you a free ride just 'cause you've got a pretty face?" He leaned toward Dean menacingly, and Dean reached for his bag, fumbling around with the pockets.

"I have money," he stuttered. "You can have it all."

"I don't want your _money_," he hissed, snatching Dean's wrist into a tight grip. He tried to pull away, but the man only came closer, leaning in so close Dean could see that he missed a spot while shaving, and there was a little nick on his chin. "We're about halfway there," he continued, rancid breath hot on Dean's face. "Now, I can tell you have somewhere to be. If you let me do this, I'll take you the rest of the way, m'kay?" Dean tried to pull away again, but the man came closer and put his other hand on his arm, holding him still. "If you struggle, I'll have my way with you anyway, only you'll wake up on the side of the road, you understand?"

What was with all of these decisions? Dean closed his eyes momentarily, wishing he could have a minute to think everything out. Lately he had been handed impossible choices, each with terrible consequences no matter what. But for whatever reason— maybe God hated him— the world kept giving him plate after plate of these selections no one wanted, the leftover scraps of a shitty life. Even so, he knew what he had to do. There was one thing he needed, and that was to get back to his dad. This was at least a surefire way to get there.

Dean nodded docilely, his throat knotting up. The smile that graced the man's mouth was scary in how shameless it was. A rough hand ran over his cheek, the thumb spending extra time running up and down the jawline.

"Good boy," he whispered huskily. "If you try anything I'll kill you," he added, his voice so smooth and calm that Dean shivered. "Get in the backseat."

Dean felt numb as he crawled into the backseat, his hands clumsily catching him as he nearly fell. He sat stiffly in the seat, waiting as the man followed him back. He felt restless and trapped, like he needed to escape his own skin, but at the same time he felt locked in one place, unable to move a muscle.

A forceful hand pushing him into a lying position made Dean's stomach churn grotesquely, and he was sure he would have emptied his stomach's contents if there had been anything in there. A heavy weight pressed against his own body, and a particular bump near his thigh made his eyes start to water. He clenched his jaw tightly and held back a sob.

"Oh, no, no," the man hushed, leaning close and pressing wet kisses to the side of his face. "Don't be like that." Dean bit his lip at the feel of greasy skin and stubble against his face and neck. Fingers snaked down to his hips, playing with the hem of his shirt before striking. They slithered up the skin of his stomach and scratched lightly. One nail caught on his nipple, making Dean's breath catch. The man misinterpreted it and smiled. "You're such a twink," he breathed, licking a soft spot of skin on his neck. "You like this."

Dean's mind was screaming, alarms going off at every corner. His body felt like it was shutting down, his arms and legs unable to move, and his tongue swelling uncomfortably, keeping any words from escaping. He clenched his fists tightly as a hand traveled into his pants, grasping with greedy fingers. All he wanted to do was throw a good punch and run, but he couldn't summon enough energy to do either. Besides, once it was done, they'd be on their way. He could finally get to Sam. He could manage to last for however long this took.

Dean shut his eyes and pretended he was somewhere else.

* * *

**Notes: **Okay, I stopped there. I've never written a scene like that before. I was torn on whether to make it more explicit, but I wasn't so sure about it and I wasn't sure how you guys would feel about it. Also, I am extremely cruel to Dean... I'm sorry...


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Dean hadn't expected to be dropped off at his exact destination. He hadn't expected to even _tell_ the driver his exact destination. But when the driver asked him, he had told willingly. He hadn't even tried to conceal the real address with a fake one. He just didn't care. That, and he wasn't positive he'd be able to walk a long distance.

The truck finally came to a stop, and the driver turned to look into the backseat where Dean was still lying down, curled up and hugging himself.

"We're here," he announced. When Dean didn't move, the man started to reach back, but Dean pulled away from his touch and started to sit up. He grabbed his things hastily and exited the car, slamming the door behind him. He hadn't taken a single step before he needed put his weight against the truck door, breathing heavily.

He couldn't even describe the pain. He couldn't even think anything coherent enough to figure out what exactly was hurting so badly. Dean gritted his teeth, trying to keep any sound from escaping his lips. He was afraid that if he let any noise come out, it'd turn into a scream and he wouldn't be able to stop.

His legs felt unreliable as he pushed away from the truck and started to walk, shaking and numb, almost collapsing every other step. He was taking wide and awkward paces, each feeling like a stab beneath the belt. Simply walking was too jarring for him to bear, so Dean prayed desperately he wouldn't have to do any running soon.

"Hey," the driver called from behind him. Dean stopped walking and clenched his fists, both from pain and frustration. He tried to call out a 'What,' but all that came out was a small croak. Instead of answering, Dean just looked over his shoulder, holding back bile at the sight of the driver. "If you ever need a ride again, you give me a call." The driver smiled hideously and took off.

Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck everyone. Fuck everything.

Dean walked on, this time taking normal steps and completely ignoring the stabs of pain.

Fuck his screwed up life, and fuck everyone and everything in it.

He didn't hesitate when one step in particular made him feel a gruesome tear somewhere he was afraid to acknowledge.

Fuck everything that was happening to him.

Dean finally stopped when he was outside the motel door, and he realized how much his stomach hurt from constantly clenching. He felt sick and tired of everything. He felt angry at everyone he had ever met. He felt absolutely terrified of what was going to happen to him. But at the same time, he was ready to go inside the room. He was ready to just get it over with. He was ready to _leave_.

He knocked against the door twice, then leaned against the wall for support. When no one answered he knocked again, but also looked over toward the parking lot, searching for the familiar black gloss of the Impala. It was nowhere to be found.

_Fuck_.

Dean dug into his bag and found something to pick the lock with. It took him almost an entire minute to get onto his knees, and when he got there he bit his tongue to hold back a whimper. With everything muscle movement, he felt like something was ripping at the core of him, tearing at skin and tendons. He breathed deeply, trying to see through a haze to focus on unlocking the door. The action took much longer than it should have, but eventually it did open, and Dean stepped— or rather, crawled— inside.

It was almost more frightening than it would have been if his dad had been there. There was an eerie silence and the lights were off. Dean couldn't help but imagine his dad jumping out from a dark corner and clamping a hand over his mouth, hushing any screams as he was beaten to death. What a way to go.

But there was no surprise murder waiting for him. Dean hobbled painfully to the bathroom and flicked the lights on, fighting the urge to collapse on the floor and pass out. He knew there something was wrong with his body, and he needed to fix it.

With his hip against the counter, Dean unhooked his belt and undid his pants, pushing them down to his ankles. Already, he had to bite back a sob. There was a dark splotch on his jeans, and he felt wetness on his legs when he pushed his pants down. Something red streaked his thigh, and he had to look up and away to regain his composure so he didn't completely lose it. Even when he got his breathing under control, he was sure he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

_Treat it like any other wound. It's just another injury. _Dean sucked in a deep breath and set to work, trying to ignore his reeling mind. While still resting against the counter, he reached into a cabinet and brought out as many towels as he could grab, wishing they were any color but white.

_Just another injury my ass. _Dean stepped out of his pants and shuffled to the bathtub, lowering himself gingerly to the bottom. At the flash of pain he felt, he adjusted so he was sitting mostly on his side. He turned the water on as hot as he could get it, relishing the way it scalded his skin. Slowly, painfully, he removed the rest of his clothes and set to work wiping the blood from his legs. There wasn't as much as he original thought, but it still pooled around him in the bath water, turning it an eerie crimson color.

Dean clenched his jaw as the cloth came closer and closer to the source of the blood. His entire body was shaking, and he kept telling himself it was just like any other injury. But no matter how much he scolded himself for being on the verge of tears, he couldn't quite convince himself that this wasn't a big deal.

He was raped. _Fucking raped._ What was happening to his life? Just a little while ago he was content with hunting alongside his brother and dad. They were simple hunters, doing their job and moving on.

And now? Dean paused his cleaning to close his eyes, holding back the tears that were burning behind his lids. Now he was sitting at the bottom of a grubby motel bathtub, cleaning off his own blood and the semen of a stranger.

All he wanted was for his dad to return, _alone_. He wanted Sammy to be safe again, off somewhere in college or something, like Dean would never be. He wanted his brother to be happy and as far away from their psychotic father as possible.

Dean dropped the soggy rag he had been using with a dull thud, covering his face with blood-soaked hands. He pressed his palms so hard against his eyes he saw white, but he didn't stop. He held still for a long while, at least until the knot in his throat faded away. When he had himself under control, Dean slowly picked up a new washcloth, wetting it and returning to work.

* * *

Dean was sitting on the edge of one of the two beds in the motel room, staring straight ahead at the tacky wallpaper. He had finished cleaning up almost an hour ago, but he could still vividly picture the bright red water running over his legs, rushing down the drain. Every time he blinked, he saw he the gruesome picture of himself behind his lids, and it made his stomach turn every time.

He hadn't moved in almost forty-five minutes, afraid that he would feel the familiar rip from somewhere unspeakable again. He just sat stock still, his shoulders stiff and his fingers grasping his thighs so tightly his knuckles were white.

He still felt dirty. Despite the fact that he had rubbed his skin raw, he still felt like his thighs were sticky and his hands were red with blood. He knew, deep down, neither was actually true, but he couldn't help but feel that way. He felt absolutely disgusting.

The sound of a key being jammed into the lock on the door made Dean jump, and suddenly his heart was hammering in his throat. He struggled to control his breathing, gripping his thighs even tighter than before. He heard the key turn in the lock, which was followed by the door being pushed open. The sound that came to his ears wasn't at all what he was anticipating, and somehow it struck him as even more terrifying than his expectation.

Dean stared wide-eyed at the door, watching as his dad stepped into the room, followed closely by Sam. They both had large grins plastered to their faces, and they were emitting a sound that Dean hadn't heard from either of them for a very long time.

Laughter. _Laughter_? Dean's stomach dropped.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes: **Oh my _God_ it has been a long time since I updated this, hasn't it? I am incredibly sorry! My computer stopped working, so I had to get that fixed. Then, school started, and apparently junior year means homework in all my classes starting from day one. _Then _(she complains further, sounding obnoxious, no doubt) I had a really, really big scavenger hunt (GISHWHES) which took up all my free time last week.

So basically, I'm sorry, but I couldn't even access the computer to write anything. But the moment I could, this is the first thing I got to! :)

* * *

**Chapter 13**

To Sam, Dean was unbreakable. His brother was his role model, strong and unstoppable, never giving up. When they were little, Sam wanted to be just like his brother. If he was being honest, he still wanted to be like Dean. Maybe not in all aspects, but at least his strength. Dean always had his head held high, no matter what the situation. His eyes constantly gleamed with determination, and his jaw was permanently set firmly.

There were only two instances where Sam felt like his brother wasn't as strong as he normally was. The first was when Sam was seven, and he came home to find Dean in the bathroom, crying and wiping blood off of his face.

"Please don't tell dad," Dean had insisted, trying to hide his battered face from his younger brother. His trembling fingers couldn't cover every dark circle, though, so Sam caught glimpses of painful-looking bruises and scratches. He had apparently gotten into a fight at school and lost, much to Sam's horror. His older brother could take on demons and monsters and ghosts, but other students could beat him up? Sam had stayed up wondering if his role model really was someone to look up to, someone who really was strong. Later, he concluded that Dean was stronger because of it.

The second instance was right now.

Sam paused in the doorway, staring into the motel before him. It was just how he and his dad had left it before going out for dinner, only now, there was a small figure sitting at the end of one bed.

No, not a small figure; it just _looked_ small, with hunched shoulders and a lowered head. And it wasn't just any figure, either. Sam took a step forward, his whole body stiffening. It was his brother.

Sam's smile from moments before, when he had been sharing a joke with his dad, faltered immediately.

"Dean," he said, the name falling out of his mouth and to the floor, right next to his stomach. He tried to walk closer to the cowering person, but his feet seemed to be nailed to the ground.

Dean looked… Well, he looked like Hell. His skin was sallow and ashy, and it looked as if it would crumble with even the slightest touch. Around his eyes, not just beneath them, were charcoal circles, and Dean's usual bright green eyes were haunted and glassy. He looked small in his clothes, and Sam swore he could see a slight tremble in his hunched-over body. There were traces of bruising, faint on his cheeks and jaw, which made Sam become suddenly mobile again. In only three strides, he was beside his brother on the bed, an arm around his shoulders.

"Dean…" He tried to come up with something to say or ask, but now that his arm was around his brother, Sam could only focus on the way Dean was shaking lightly and the way he flinched away before leaning into the touch heavily.

Sam thought about the time when he was seven, but somehow, though there was less blood and bruising, Dean seemed more broken now than he had back then.

Their dad was with them in less than a second, his face wrought with worry. The man knelt before Dean, putting his hands on his son's knees and staring intensely at his face, taking in the unnatural colors.

"Dean, what happened?" their dad whispered, his voice full of mingled strain and concern. Sam pulled his eyes away from their dad to rest on Dean again, watching as his brother glanced between the two of them.

"I, uh…" Dean stuttered, his eyes darting to Sam and then back to his dad.

"Was it the poltergeist?" he prompted, squeezing his son's knees. "I told Sam about the case you took on a couple days ago before he got here. I thought you could handle it."

"Um, yeah," he muttered, casting his eyes down to the floor.

"What happened?" Sam asked, visions of Dean being slung around a house already running through his mind.

"It was just, um, a little harder to deal with than I thought," Dean replied, glancing up at their dad with a strange look on his face. "But I'm fine now."

"Fine my ass," their dad cut in, reaching up and cupping Dean's cheek in his palm. He moved his son's head back and forth, examining the traces of bruising and dark circles around his eyes. "You look like Hell, Dean." He sighed and released Dean's face, standing up from his squatting position. "I shouldn't have let you go alone." Sam watched as their dad started to pace around the room and rub his features with big hands. He turned to his brother and lowered his voice.

"Are you sure you're ok?" He watched Dean's eyes, searching for any hint of guilt for lying or a plea for help. Dean's eyes remained glassy and dead.

"I'm fine," he repeated quietly, looking down.

"Dean…"

"Sam, I am fine," Dean insisted, meeting his gaze steadily. Sam nodded slowly, letting it go.

Their dad stopped pacing, returning to stand beside them with his brow creased. "Ok, I've got a first aid kit in the car, but it looks like those bruises are going to get pretty bad soon," he commented, staring again at Dean. Sam looked at the faint purple-green spots, wondering how hard the hits must've been to leave them. "Sam, can you run by the general store and grab some ice for your brother?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam said, standing eagerly. After one last glance at his brother, he headed out towards the car, his dad trailing behind him for the first aid kit.

* * *

Dean didn't think he could feel any worse than he already did, but apparently he was very, very wrong. He thought maybe seeing his brother would lift his mood, at least a little. Sam could always make him feel better. But this time, he just felt like he let his brother down.

As Sam and their dad returned to the car, Dean buried his face in his hands, muffling a groan. He wanted to hug Sam, pull him close, and tell him everything was going to be alright. He wanted to watch his brother leave him with a smile on his face, sure that Dean was just fine.

But he couldn't even do that. He couldn't even pull himself together long enough to make his brother think he was normal. He couldn't even do that.

Instead, his little brother was going out of his way to take care of Dean. Great. Just great.

The door to the motel room opened with a small creak, and despite the fact that Dean wasn't in the slightest expecting to see his brother again, he felt a deep-seated disappointed when he looked up and didn't see Sam in the doorway. His dad entered the room holding a kit, and Dean stood at his arrival, shaky on his feet. He ignored the pain the struck him below the belt, focusing instead on forming coherent words.

"Dad, I—"

The plastic container for the first aid kit gave off a strong _crack_ as it impacted with the side of Dean's head. He stumbled back, taken aback by the assault. The side of his face stung sharply, and he felt a thin, warm trail of blood crawling down his jaw.

"You don't get to call me that," his dad growled, throwing the first aid kit— which was now splintered from the hit— onto the bed. He pointed a forceful finger when Dean started to speak again, shushing him instantly. "How dare you? How _fucking_ dare you?"

Dean stepped back, willing his legs to keep him standing, at least for a little while longer. A high-pitched ringing in his ear was distracting, but he tried to pay attention to what his dad was saying.

"You run away from me, after all I've done for you? And when you come back, you make me lie to my own son?" He clenched his fists, and Dean braced himself, but no punch came. "What the Hell did you get yourself into while you were gone, anyway? You look like shit. You know how that makes me look?" There was a bout of silence, in which Dean took another tentative step back.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, unable to look up from the ground.

"Damn right you're sorry! I had to cover for your sorry ass." His dad looked at him just as Dean was tiptoeing back another inch, and he reached forward, grabbing his son by the shoulder and dragging him closer. "Don't you run away again," he said in a low voice. "You run away again and I swear you'll regret it." Dean nodded meekly, trying to pull away. Before he could, his dad threw him against the nearest wall.

His dad stalked away from him, heading for the door. Before leaving, he pointed to the broken first aid kit. "Clean yourself up so your brother doesn't suspect anything. I'm done covering for you." He opened the door, calling over his shoulder one last time. "I'll be at the bar up the street if you need me. Don't need me."

The door slammed shut, and Dean set to work fixing up his face and hiding the evidence of the shattered plastic. To hide from his brother further, Dean deemed it wise to go to bed, despite that fact that it was only 7:30. He crawled beneath the covers, being sure to pull them over his face, and tried to fall asleep, the ringing still loud in his ear.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes: **I forgot how much I love writing fanfiction apparently! Haha This was a much quicker update than before. Thank you for reading, guys. :)

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Dean was still awake when Sam returned, and he listened, his eyes shut tightly, as his brother came into the room slowly. Sam didn't turn the light on, but Dean was sure he could see clearly through the faint light filtering in through the window.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, and Dean focused on not reacting to the voice. He kept his body rigidly still, barely breathing, as he waited for his brother to move on to something else. "Dean." Sam's tone sounded stern, and he moved up right next to the pillow. "I know you're awake." A warm hand was suddenly pressed against his shoulder, and Dean had to fight not to pull away from it. It was _Sam_, for God's sake. Still, he tightened up at the contact, and he knew he had given himself away. Hesitantly, Dean sat up in the bed, keeping the sore side of his face in the shadows, away from Sam.

"I'm trying to go to sleep," Dean said in a gravelly voice, hoping he sounded as tired as he felt. It wasn't a lie, per say; if he could sleep, he would gladly sleep. He just couldn't.

"No you're not," Sam replied, and Dean noticed his tone was gradually becoming less sympathetic. Earlier he had been so worried, but now he sounded… irritated? "You haven't gone to bed before midnight since you were twelve."

Dean chuckled slightly. "Yeah…"

"What's going on?" Sam asked. Dean could feel eyes burning holes into his head, willing him to look up, but he refused, knowing the side of his face was noticeably worse than before he had been hit.

"Nothing," he said, brushing it off with a flick of his hand.

"Don't give me that crap." The bed sunk under Sam's weight as he sat down next to his brother. Dean stiffened at the harshness in his voice. What was going on? Did Sam _know_? Dean's heart started racing at the thought, but he tried to keep himself calm. Sam couldn't know. He had _no way_ of knowing.

Dean glanced over at his brother quickly, turning his head back away just as fast. "You didn't get ice," he commented, mostly to change the subject.

"No, I didn't. I tried the general store up the street, but they didn't have ice. They suggested I try the grocery store on the other side of town, so I drove up there. They were closed. Then I turned my phone on to call dad and see what he wanted me to do." Sam paused, and Dean could feel the tension pulsating from his brother, and it made him nervous. "I had some interesting voicemails."

"I'm not really interested in my little brother's phone sex," Dean offered, forcing himself to laugh. It sounded strangled, getting caught in his throat uncomfortably.

"It's not funny," he nearly yelled, and Dean stared at him from the corner of his eye. Sam looked pissed off, his jaw clenched and his eyes stern. "I had a few from Ellen, and a few from Bobby. They were about you, Dean." Another minute of silence followed, neither brother sure how to break the quiet.

"Sam…"

"What the Hell is going on?" Sam interrupted, standing up from the bed again. He towered over his brother, clenching his fists. "It seems like everybody knows what's happening but _me_. How do you think I feel getting ten voicemails from Ellen and Bobby, with them yelling about how you were going back home? _Going back_, Dean. Apparently you ran away?" He sounded dumbstruck and furious, and Dean kept his eyes locked on the covers of the bed, anxiety welling up in his chest.

"Sam, I…" he trailed off again, at a loss of words.

"And I'm apparently supposed to keep you away from dad?" Sam coughed harshly, throwing his arms up. "The messages didn't say why, though. They just said to do it. What am I supposed to do now, Dean? Because I have to tell you, I'm at a loss."

"Nothing," Dean answered, turning his head just enough to stare at Sam. "You don't have to do anything."

"Really? Because it sounded like something needed to be done," he spat, sounding angrier by the second. "What would really help is if you _told me what was going on_."

"Nothing is going on," Dean snapped loudly, ejecting himself from the bed to stand in front of his brother. The sudden movement surprised his entire body, sending waves of pain down his back and to the side of his face. He winced visibly, shocking his brother into reaching forward to help him. Dean flinched away from Sam instinctively, knocking against the bedside table behind him and sending the alarm clock crashing to the floor. Both brothers froze, staring at each other apprehensively.

"Dean," Sam said with quiet sympathy and astonishment, breaking the silence. Dean could feel himself being scrutinized now that his face was out in the open. He could feel it pulsing where his cheek was swollen and dark from his dad's attack. The longer Sam stared, the more self-conscious he felt. Eventually, he cleared his throat and turned his face away.

"Just drop it, Sammy," he ordered, purposefully using the childish nickname in hopes to be more influential over his brother.

"That was not there when I left," he continued, voice laced with dread.

"Sam…" he started to warn.

"And you didn't have that cut," he added, maneuvering himself to he could see the side of Dean's face again.

"I said drop it."

"Dean… Did dad—?"

"I said _drop it_!"

Sam looked as if he was about to say more, his face contorting in surprise and anger, when a knock on the door brought both of their attention elsewhere. Dean felt his stomach drop and his heart stop.

Dad was back. He was back, probably drunk, and definitely pissed off. Only this time, Sam was home. The thought of their dad beating up on his little brother made every muscle in Dean's body tense up in defense, and the thought of their dad doing _things_ to Sammy… Dean ached, wanting to hide his little brother away from their dad forever.

"You have to leave," Dean sputtered, not sure what else to do. He reached forward and grabbed Sam's shoulders like he was a little kid again, trying to maneuver the now-larger-than-him man.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked incredulously as he was lead to the back of the motel room.

"Is there a back door to this place?" Dean looked around desperately, grunting loudly when he didn't find one. Another knock at the door, harder than before, made his heart rate spike drastically, and he shoved Sam hastily into the bathroom. "Wait here, then run for the door when the coast is clear," he ordered, trying to shut the bathroom door.

"Cut it out," Sam argued, escaping his safe haven and moving to the middle of the room.

"_Please_," Dean begged, his throat burning. He couldn't let his dad touch his little brother. It was _his_ job to protect him. It was _his_ job to take the punches. He reached out and grabbed Sam's wrist, tightening his grip protectively.

Something started pounding heavily against the door, and Dean could practically see his dad's fist swinging back and back again as he punched the door over and over. His mind switched out the door with Sam, and again he felt sick to his stomach at the thought.

"Who's at the door?" Sam asked, glaring at where the noise was coming from. When Dean's grip tightened even further on his wrist, Sam pulled away violently and stomped toward the door. "Who is at the door?" he demanded, his fists clenching. "Is it Dad?"

"Sam, please, just drop it."

"I'll kill him," Sam nearly screamed, pushing past Dean to head towards the door. He tried to hold back his little brother, fisting his shirt and tugging it back towards him to no avail. His brother was bulky and tall, but he wouldn't be able to fight off their dad. Dean sprinted ahead to stand between Sam and the door. "Get out of the way," Sam ordered, his body visibly shaking.

"_No_. Sam, just let it go." He put his palms on Sam's chest, trying to shove him away. Behind them, the pounding continued, growing more frantic and loud with each second.

"After what he did to you?" Sam asked, incredulous. "Look at your face!"

"You have no idea what he did to me," Dean screamed back, his heart pounding in every part of his body. He didn't have much time anymore. He needed to get Sam away from their dad.

Suddenly the pounding at the door paused, leaving in its place a heavy silence. Sam and Dean looked at each other tensely, then each of them startled violently when a huge _thump_ came from behind the door, followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground.

"_Balls_!"

* * *

**Notes: **Phew! For once, something good is happening.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 **

"Bobby," Dean sighed in relief, all of his muscle relaxing at once. He nearly collapsed onto his knees, but he held himself up as well as he could while the older man was let into the motel by his brother. Sam closed the door behind him, staring in confusion.

"Is it just the two of you in here?" Bobby asked, peering around him as if he was waiting for someone to jump out. He looked paranoid and out of breath, like he had recently exerted himself.

"Yeah," Sam replied. He furrowed his brow and pointed to the door behind him with his thumb. "Was that you pounding at the door?"

"I heard yelling, and I thought…" He looked at Dean as if for the first time, and his face fell instantly. Dean could feel himself growing uncomfortable at being stared at again. "When there was no answer, I assumed…" Bobby took an uneven breath and shook his head. "I figured I'd try to knock the door down." He shrugged and rubbed his shoulder gingerly.

Sam laughed despite the recent tension. "You threw yourself against the door?"

"It was in the moment," he argued before turning back to Dean. Slowly, he took a step towards him, and Dean fought the urge to take a step back. Lucky for everyone in the room, Bobby didn't seem to want a reunion hug, so Dean let himself be examined silently. "Boy…" he whispered, looking as close to sensitive as Bobby could get.

His eyes skimmed over Dean's face, taking in the swollen bruise and raised, pink skin where the plastic cut him. There were faint traces of bruises dotting his jawline, and Dean knew Bobby could see those, too. He wouldn't have been worried, but he had a strong feeling Ellen had informed Bobby of pretty much everything she knew after he left the Roadhouse.

Everybody knew now. Dean could have curled into a ball like a child in that moment of realization, and he had half a mind to do just that if it weren't for the two other men standing in the room with him. He had tried so hard to hide it for so long, and now it was out in the open to everyone he cared about. Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo… God, who else knew?

Granted, they each only knew bits and pieces, but they still knew, and that still hurt.

"I'm fine," he sighed, tired of repeating the same lie over and over. Brushing off Bobby's examination by walking past him, Dean pushed the focus in the room off of himself. "So why are you here?" After he asked the question, he immediately regretted it. Of course he knew why Bobby was here. Hearing it out loud would only make him feel worse about himself.

"To make sure your ass is okay," Bobby snapped. "Which, apparently, it ain't." There was a hint of attempted humor in his voice, and Dean had to commend the older man for trying to pretend things were still normal.

"You didn't need to come," Dean stated, and he meant it. He didn't need Bobby to look after him anymore. He didn't need _anyone_ to look after him. What he needed was for everyone to leave him and his dad alone so they could finish what had already started, so everything could finally stop being crazy.

"Don't start with me, Boy," he replied in warning. The look he gave told Dean now was not the time to argue, so he just nodded and looked at the floor.

God, he was in trouble now, wasn't he? Dean nearly laughed at himself. He was twenty-two, and he was in trouble with his family. He ran away from home after a couple of bruises, got himself into a shit ton of trouble, then ran back home just when people started to help him. He was a burden on everybody, passing along his problems like a coward.

"Ok, well," Bobby started, clapping his hands together, "get your things." He addressed both brothers, looking at them in wait. When there was no response other than confused looks, he sighed. "I didn't drive all the way down here going fifty over the speed limit just to go right back." He turned to Dean and spoke again in a lower voice, solely speaking to him. "You're coming with me even if I have to knock you out and throw you over my shoulder."

"Yes, sir," he whispered, his voice coarse. He wasn't sure what else to do at this point; he couldn't say no, and Bobby and Sam certainly wouldn't just leave him, no matter how hard he tried to convince them.

"My stuff is in the car," Sam stated, looking bemused by the whole scene.

"Go get it and meet us at my car," Bobby ordered, sending Sam out to the parking lot. Dean tried to take up time by getting his own things, but he could feel eyes on him the whole time, and when he returned to the middle of the room, bag slung over his shoulder, Bobby cleared his throat and spoke again. "Dean—"

"Please," he interrupted, closing his eyes and taking a breath. "Don't."

"Fine, but this ain't over." There was a silent moment, but it didn't last nearly as long as Dean would have hoped. "Where's your dad?"

The question was simple. It was easy, really. But despite that, Dean felt his spine tingle uncomfortably. Where was his dad? In his head, scratching at every thought and leaving behind bleeding, cold memories. Inside of his clenched stomach, making him feel like he was about to be sick every second of the day. He was behind him every time he turned, making him jump. He was behind every closed door, waiting to strike. He was everywhere.

"The bar up the street," Dean replied instead.

"Alright, go to the car," Bobby said, gesturing to the door. "We're going to go back up to my place, and you can stay with me for a while." Dean nodded, stepping outside into the parking lot. They stopped outside of the car, and Bobby nodded towards the door. "Get in the backseat."

It was such an innocent order, but Dean's breath caught in his throat and he had to turn away to hide the hurt in his face. The last time he was instructed to get into the backseat he—

_Probing hands, too eager, slid over his skin, touching and holding him, rubbing places he didn't want rubbed. Fingers slid into crevices, and he could feel everything as it happened, no matter how hard he tried to block it out. Closing his eyes did nothing but leave everything that was happening to his imagination, which was probably worse than reality._

_ Nails caught on skin before tearing it open, leaving a trail of blood to slide onto the seat beneath him. Whenever he made any noise, the actions only became more passionate. Whenever he didn't make a noise, the actions feverishly tried to elicit them from his mouth. There was no winning._

_ Wet._

_ Suffocating._

_ Stale. _

_ There were lips on his neck, a tongue slipping over his jugular. A weight pressed against his pelvis, grinding with too much fervor. _

_ All of it— every moan and movement— had started with one order. "Get in the backseat." _

Dean sucked in a deep breath, realizing he hadn't been breathing. His body fell against the car, holding his weight up, because his legs certainly weren't able to. He panted, trying to regain his composure, but Bobby was already at his side, and Sam was leaning out of the car, watching with wide eyes.

There was a hand suddenly on his shoulder, pushing— no, it was soothing. Dean flinched away from it before he realized whose hand it was, and he looked guiltily at Bobby.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, his heart practically throbbing out of his chest. His eyes burned, and he was forced to either keep them closed or let tears spill out. He opted for the first option, squeezing his lids together tightly.

The hand that had been on his shoulder pulled away, and Bobby took a step back. Sam remained in the car, stock still and not breathing. The only sound for the moment, Dean thought, was surely the sound of his heart hammering away.

"What's wrong?" Bobby asked, but Dean shook his head in reply. How the hell was he supposed to explain that? He wouldn't even know where to _begin_. Not to mention the fact that not one ounce of him _wanted_ to tell anyone about it.

"Nothing," he sputtered, moving to get into the car. His fingers fumbled over the handle because his hands were shaking so much, and he had to focus all his energy on just opening the door. When he finally tugged it open, his legs buckled and he crumpled into the backseat.

Sam stared at his from his seat in the front, looking worried and on the edge of saying something. Bobby stomped around the driver's side and got in, slamming the door impossibly loud behind him. He started the car with the same amount of vehemence, huffing under his breath.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes off of his brother. Dean adjusted himself in the backseat, sitting slightly on his hip rather that straight up and down. He stared out the window, his face growing hot with embarrassment.

"My place," Bobby replied, his voice terse. "But we're making a pit stop first."

* * *

**Notes: **Well I started out this chapter with the intention of making it really happy, but it didn't quite end that way... However, the next chapter is going to have some good scenes that I hope will make you guys happy. :)

Except I also have some ideas that might make you guys less happy and more sad in the foreseeable future... So... we'll see. Haha


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Frankly, Sam felt more scared than he had in his entire life. He had stared death in the face countless times, even since he was a baby. He had been shot and stabbed at, bitten by beasts, and chased down by creatures straight from Hell, but watching the one person he looked up to fall apart two feet away in the backseat was more frightening than any of that.

Every time Bobby, who was driving well over the speed limit, took a sharp turn, Sam could hear his brother make a short whimper in the back of the car, too faint for anyone to hear unless they were focusing only on Dean. Out of the rearview mirror, Sam could catch glimpses of Dean curled up awkwardly, sitting almost entirely on his side with his head leaning against the window. His face was screwed up like he was in pain and on the brink of losing it, but Sam refrained from asking what was wrong. Dean didn't seem like he'd say anytime soon.

The large, swollen mark was still on the side of Dean's face where their dad had hit him. Dean hadn't exactly admitted that it was there dad, but Sam didn't have to be a detective to know it was true. And the fact that it had probably happened after he left the two of them alone made Sam want to hide his face in shame.

How could he have left his brother alone with that? He had actually fallen for the story their dad gave him. He was an idiot.

Another sharp swerve of the car elicited a hiss from the backseat, and Sam risked turning his head to look at his brother. Dean was taking deep breaths, obviously trying to compose himself. Even when he was in pain— more than just physical pain, it seemed— Dean was still trying to hide it. Always the hero, Sam thought with a humorless snort.

Sam turned back around so Dean wouldn't know he had been staring. The bruise and cut were one thing, but he could tell his brother was hurting a lot more than just that. The way he held himself let on to something deeper-set than a simple welt. What exactly had their dad done to him?

The car pulled swiftly into the front lot of a local bar and parked near the door. From where he was, Sam could see two men laughing hysterically as they stumbled out of the doors and into the street.

"Stay here," Bobby ordered, practically jumping out of the car. He left the engine running and the keys dangling in the ignition, either forgetting it or getting ready for a quick getaway.

Sam didn't think it was an opportune time for a drink, but he hadn't had time to say anything before Bobby disappeared. He was left to sit in silent waiting with his brother in the backseat, who was still curled up with his cheek to the window. Only now, his facial expression was under complete control.

He wanted to ask so badly. He wanted Dean to tell him every detail of what had gone down, and what their dad had done to him. At the same time, Sam didn't want to know at all. Or rather, he didn't want what was said to be true. If their dad had done terrible things to Dean…

Sam left him alone with that monster. He packed his bags and took off, abandoning the family so their dad could do anything and everything to Dean. Beat him senseless, break his bones… anything. And Sam just left him all alone to run off for his own selfish desire. He could have protected Dean. He could have done _something_.

But he didn't.

* * *

Bobby could not comprehend what was wrong with John. He could not— and goddammit he tried for John's sake— wrap his mind around why he would do something like that to Dean. _How_ he could do that to Dean. That kid might have been trouble at times, but he was the most wholehearted kid Bobby had ever met. He was family-oriented, smart as Hell, and he hadn't done anything in his life to deserve even the smallest backhand.

And John had taken that innocent boy— and that's all he really was, a _boy_— and done God-knows what to him. Unspeakable things, probably. Things even Ellen and all her motherly kindness couldn't get out of Dean. Things that made a normally strong and resilient kid curl up in his backseat and try to hide yelps of pain every time the car turned a corner.

Strengthened by the thought of Dean's agonizing whines, Bobby pushed through a crowd of drunken idiots who snorted in his general direction before stumbling away to imbibe further. He stepped in something slick, nearly falling on his ass, but pushed on, too pumped up on adrenaline to stop.

Impossibly, his blood pressure spiked even further when Bobby caught sight of a slumped figure at the bar. A man was hunched at the counter, attending to a bottle like it was a lover. By the sloppy way he drank, it was obvious the bottle hadn't been his first. Bobby stormed up to him and stole him up from the seat.

He didn't deserve to enjoy a drink after what he had done to his own son. God, his _own son. _

John had been so screwed up after Mary passed away, but that never gave him the right to hit his own kid. The lack of a wife didn't give him the right to screw over his own kid. God, he could have worded that one better…

If Mary were alive and seeing it, she'd take Sam and Dean away for good, without hesitation. Bobby had met her, and he knew that's exactly what she would want for her boys, hands down. She loved her sons, more than anything in the world. She would give her life over and over if it meant they'd be safe. He guaranteed she didn't know John would do this. She probably never dreamed something like this would happen.

He hadn't even planned anything to say to John at this point. The entire ride and the entire walk through the bar to find him, Bobby had simply been thinking of the reasons why Dean's father deserved to go straight to Hell and burn for eternity. Now, confronting the man at last, all words escaped his mind, and they were replaced solely with damning thoughts. He was very literally seeing red.

Before he knew it, Bobby was pulling his hand back, clenching his fist tightly. He couldn't keep his body from shaking, adrenaline kicking in and pumping the blood through his veins. He didn't care if he was about to make a scene. In fact, let him make the biggest scene the bar had ever witnessed. He wanted the whole world to know what John had done, and he wanted them to punish him for it. Maybe then he'd get what was coming to him.

"Bobby," John slurred, but he hardly got the name out before his head knocked backwards.

He barely felt the movement of John's nose beneath his fist before he turned away from John as the man collapsed to the ground, out cold. While a few people huddled around the fallen man, Bobby made his escape quickly back to the car. Sam was still waiting for him eagerly in the front seat, and Dean was still curled up in the back, his forehead pressed to the window. His eyes were closed.

"What did you do?" Sam asked when Bobby got in the car, out of breath not from the run to the car, but just from the rush of what had happened. He could hear his own heart beating in his chest, and blood pumped through his veins vigorously. His knuckles ached from impact, but he didn't give a damn.

"Not enough," he huffed in reply, backing out of the parking lot so quickly he made Dean inhale sharply from the backseat.

Driving off, Bobby slowed the car down to a more acceptable speed, wanting to keep the kid in as little pain as possible. He was in charge of him now, he supposed. Might as well make it count.

* * *

**Notes: **Sorry it's kind of short. I just really wanted a scene where Bobby punched John in the face.

Now. I've been wondering about where I want the story to go, and I have some ideas. I don't think I'm going to give away a lot here, but if you're a stickler for spoilers, I'd stop reading right now...

How would you guys feel about Cas entering the story? It'd probably be college-ish-aged Jimmy Novak's vessel, too, if that helps you visualize. Also, how do you feel about a demon deal? Too cliché? I won't give away who makes a deal or why, but just in general would a demon deal make you go, "Ugh. Been there done that"?

Just curious about what you'd think. :)


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